


beautiful ghosts

by curiositykilled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, BAMF Natasha, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky Barnes-centric, But in a different way, Canon-Typical Plot Holes, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Consent Issues, Dubious Science, F/M, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Other, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve had no childhood, Super Soldier Serum, Timeline Fuckery, also neither did Bucky, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:30:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 45,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky’s not a hero. Never wanted to be, never tried to be. His shoulder’s aching with that low, dull throb that comes ever so often between the synthetic nerves and the hollows where real ones used to be. His whole body’s running out of even fumes on which to run. His leather jacket’s speckled and slick with the hazy mist. His only goal is to get to his apartment and crash on the couch, fall asleep to one of Natasha’s foreign films in the background.<br/>But –<br/>But there’s a dumbass kid getting cornered by two thugs, and he’s always had a soft spot for scrawny idiots who think they can take on the world and win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

           Bucky’s not a hero. Never wanted to be, never tried to be. His shoulder’s aching with that low, dull throb that comes ever so often between the synthetic nerves and the hollows where real ones used to be. His whole body’s running out of even fumes on which to run. His leather jacket’s speckled and slick with the hazy mist. His only goal is to get to his apartment and crash on the couch, fall asleep to one of Natasha’s foreign films in the background.

           But –

           But there’s a dumbass kid getting cornered by two thugs, and he’s always had a soft spot for scrawny idiots who think they can take on the world and win. So, he turns back, rolls his shoulders down and back into that old swagger he wore through foster homes, high school, and the first week of Basic. It’s won over more men and women than he really wants to count, and it’s just predatory enough to get people on edge.

           As he’s walking back down the sidewalk, sidestepping the thinning crowds still out in the drizzle, he spots another crusader bee-lining across the road. He’s blonde and built, a little taller than Bucky and with the stance of a soldier. Both of them are walking too purposefully towards the teenagers to be headed anywhere else, and their eyes meet in silent confirmation of an unspoken plan.

           “Hey, pal, these guys bothering you?” Blondie asks, stepping up just to the left of the victim.

           Bucky steps up on the other side without bothering to introduce himself. People run from darkness, and he’s always been close to the shadows. From the way the duo eyes him warily, that holds true out of combat gear.

           “We’re jus’ talking,” one of them protests, voice carefully even.

           “Uh-huh,” Blondie hums, an easy, genial attitude barely fitting over his broad shoulders.

           He’s not there to fight; all he’d have to do is stick a hand out to halt either of the two teenagers in their paths. Still, all that bulk lends a hefty weight to his stance.

           “Why don’t you boys run along and you can talk in the morning?” he suggests. “It’s awful late for kids your age to be out.”

           It’s half past eight, hardly late enough to have most city dwellers in their homes, but the teens aren’t idiot enough to backtalk two hundred pounds of solid muscle. They turn and flee.

           “I was fine,” the kid mutters, left with only Bucky and Blondie.

           “Sorry,” Blondie apologizes, voice startlingly sincere. “I don’t take bullies well. You okay to get home?”

           Apparently equally surprised by the big guy’s genuine apology, the boy looks thrown for a moment before rapidly coloring bashful.

           “I uh,” he starts before admitting, hand rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m kinda’ lost, I guess. I was just tryin’ to get them off my tail, and uh – yeah, I’m not sure where I am.”

           Blondie smiles, an easy one that, even in the unsteady light of the street corner, looks like a bit of the sun peeking through. He’ll help the kid. Bucky starts to step back, to trudge the rest of the way to his apartment.

           “Happens all the time. I’m sure we can get you back,” Blondie volunteers.

           ‘We’? Bucky thinks, brain short-circuiting for a moment. Then, he realizes Blondie’s giving him a hopeful, lifted eyebrow look, and he swallows back his protests to give a terse nod and tight smile. The kid gives him a startled look like he hadn’t realized Bucky was there, even though Bucky knows he’d looked over when he first stepped up. It doesn’t really surprise him: beside the sunshine and solidity of the blonde, he’s nothing more than smoke and shadow.

           It’s a quick trip – they’re just three blocks or so from the kid’s home – and the blonde spends it chatting genially with the boy until they leave him at his doorstep with Blondie’s instructions to get ice on his blackening eye. Then, they’re left standing across from each other, the rain petering off into nothing.

           “Thanks for that,” Blondie offers.

           “I did do a whole lot,” Bucky replies drily, hands still firmly stuffed in his jacket pockets. “You need walked home, too?”

           Blondie laughs and flushes. In the gold light of the door’s overhead light, he’s all warmth and sudden bashfulness.

           “I just meant – it was nice – if they had tried something, y’know, it wouldn’t have just been me,” he clarifies.

           “Yeah, ‘cause you couldn’t’ve handled a couple a’ fifteen year olds,” Bucky snorts as they start walking again.

           This time, Bucky assumes, they’re headed towards Blondie’s home. It’s definitely not towards his; a stranger hasn’t seen the path to his apartment since he left his last foster home.

           Blondie laughs a little self-consciously.

           “Yeah. Well,” he mumbles. “So, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

           “Bucky,” Bucky answers, adding, impulsively, “Sir.”

           Immediately, Blondie stiffens, easy face falling in surprise. Bucky bites back a laugh, only smiles innocently over at him.

           “How’d you-?” he demands.

           Bucky does laugh then, just a low, short chuckle.

           “Kinda’ hard not to recognize a comic book hero-turn-real-life-alien-fighter,” he points out.

           “Paul didn’t,” Steve objects, just a shade away from pouty.

           “His eye was swollen shut,” Bucky objects.

           Lips pursing, Steve looks like he’s struggling to find a rebuttal before relenting and shrugging muscular shoulders.

           “How come you didn’t say anything?” he asks instead.

           “Deal with enough officers on a daily basis,” Bucky explains, shrugging.

           Steve side-eyes him a little curiously.

           “Soldier?” he asks, like it isn’t obvious.

           “Something like that,” Bucky affirms.

           They fall silent for a little while, the noise of the city night swelling comfortably up around them like the warm gusts of air released from buildings’ industrial-size vents.

           “So, what’s Captain America doing wandering the streets at night, anyway?” Bucky finally asks.

            Steve shrugs slightly, head tilted up towards the sky. Bucky wonders, briefly, if, with all the enhancements he’s supposedly got, the guy can actually see through the orange haze of light pollution to the stars purportedly beyond. He doubts it, but Steve’s faint smile almost seems to suggest it.

            “Just wanted a walk,” he replies. “There’s a limit to what can be housed in the Tower.”

            “I imagine Stark wouldn’t appreciate hearing that,” Bucky remarks.

            Steve laughs, a low, warm chuckle, and shakes his head slightly.

            “Nah, probably not,” he agrees.

           They’re about a mile from his apartment when Steve pauses outside a bland brownstone that probably costs triple Bucky’s rent. Shifting his weight, the captain glances up at the building, then Bucky, then his feet, then Bucky again.

           “Well - uh, thanks,” he offers.

           “No problem. Next time you need a bodyguard, lemme’ know,” Bucky jokes.

           “Yeah,” Steve chuckles, fiddling with his keys. “See you ‘round.”

           “See ya’,” Bucky echoes, stepping back and turning to go as Steve trots up the steps to his door.

           He doesn’t turn around, just hunches his shoulders down and blows a raindrop off the tip of his nose, and it’s only fifteen minutes later that he’s unlocking his own apartment’s door. From the doorway, he can see Natasha’s scarlet locks peeking over the edge of the couch, and he sighs, shoulders relaxing. This place isn’t ‘home,’ probably won’t ever be, but there’s a certain security and comfort in coming back to the same place, the same person, at night.

          “You’re late,” Natasha calls.

          “Yeah,” Bucky agrees, sloughing off his coat and dropping it on the back of the couch. “You know Captain America lives in Brooklyn?”

          Glancing up from the veritable bible in her lap, Natasha fixes him with an unimpressed look.

          “James, everyone knows Steve lives in Brooklyn. The whole ‘hometown boy’ deal? Kinda’ reliant on that,” she scoffs. “Why?”

          “Ran into him,” Bucky shrugs, peeling off his left hand glove.

          “What?” Natasha demands, sitting upright.

          Picking up jacket and glove, he moves back towards the coat closet they keep mostly-empty by the door.

          “Some kid was getting beat up, he was going to the rescue,” he explains over his shoulder.

          He doesn’t have to look back to know the expression on his roommate’s face: amusement and fondness mixed together in that impossible look she gets whenever she thinks he’s being sweet.

         “And let me guess, you just happened to be walking towards them,” she teases.

         “Yup,” he confirms, dropping down onto the couch and swinging his legs over hers. “Total coincidence.”

         “You’re such a sap,” she scoffs, tossing him the remote.

          It clicks against his palm, plastic on metal, and he redirects it towards the TV, flipping to some comedy about a fake psychic and his buddy. Natasha glances once towards the screen, rolls her eyes, and returns to reading. By Bucky’s best guess, she’ll be finished in three days. He’ll still be wondering why she bothered in three years.

         “Mm, Nat?” he asks, an hour later and half-asleep.

         She glances up.

         “Y’going in tomorrow?”

         She pauses slightly, green eyes narrowed in thought.

         “Probably. Need a ride?” she asks.

         Bucky grins back, closing his eyes.

         “You’re the best,” he answers.

         “And don’t you forget it,” she orders lightheartedly. “Night, James.”

         “Night,” he replies.

         He drops off to sleep like a rock through a void - nothing but darkness and stillness around him. It doesn’t stay that way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my NaNoWriMo for this year (with a little headstart 'cause you know I need it). Hopefully that means I'll actually finish it.


	2. Chapter 2

    “Hey,” Natasha greets, sliding a mug across the counter.

     Bucky grunts faintly, forehead still propped up by his left hand, but he reaches out for the mug with his right, letting the warmth soak through his palm. It’s not the same nightmare every night, but his mind has a few favorites and they inevitably leave him shaking and soaked in sweat. Even with the AC cranked as high as it’ll go, he can still feel the desert creeping in and burning away his sanity.

     “Still going in?” she asks.

     “Have to,” he mutters, right hand tightening its grip absently. He forces it to loosen.

     “James...” she starts.

     He doesn’t bother interrupting,  but she doesn’t finish anyway. Instead, she sighs faintly and stands, walking around the end of the counter to come up beside him. One hand slides up to wrap gently around his right wrist, thumb soothing gentle circles into his skin. Instinctively, reflexively, his hand relaxes and the rest of his body follows soon after.

     "You're going to be fine," she promises, leaning in to press a kiss against his temple.

     Summoning up a thin smile, he nods and, after a lingering, worried look, she nods back slightly before releasing him and returning to her room to change. Behind her, Bucky swallows and frowns down at his coffee before lifting it and taking a reluctant sip.  He can't postpone the day forever.

     Two mugs, one near-silent car ride, and an hour later, he's walking into Stark-cum-Avengers Tower in jeans and a t-shirt, jacket snug across his shoulders. He rarely visits the Tower, generally just checks into Headquarters,  but Fury had ordered him to get a check-up first, and Bucky tends to avoid arguing with the director, which is why he finds himself in an all-glass elevator sinking through the floor to Sub-basement 3.

      Inside, as always, is a veritable hospital worth of doctors, scientists, and clinics. There’s no receptionist, no friendly secretary to check him in and double-check that his insurance hasn’t changed in the six months since his last visit. Instead,  he types in his serial number into the access pad and lets it scan his right hand. Then, he waits in one of the plain grey chairs - more comfortable than a hospital’s but not by much - until his time.

     It’s not long, maybe five minutes, and then a small woman, round-faced and friendly, peeks her head out of one of the doors and smiles faintly at him.

     “Come on in, Sergeant,” she greets, opening the door wide enough for him to fit through as well.

     “How’s the paper shaping up, Mags?” he queries.

      A doctoral candidate-but-not-quite-holder, the young woman has been present at every one of Bucky’s check-ups for the past year and a half, and while their worlds only collide when he’s her lab rat, she’s friendly and kind, and he looks forward to seeing her. After all, it’s not really her fault that his prosthetic is the biggest contribution he has to offer the world.

      “Well,” she answers with a closed-lip smile. “They’ve decided to test out a leg prosthetic on another patient, so I can finally get out of your hair.”

       Her thin smile, the same polite one she always wears, twitches into a slightly more crooked, teasing look, and he affects a painfully hurt expression as they enter the exam room.

     “Say it ain’t so, Mags,” he gasps. “You’re leavin’ me for a legless man?”

      “I think science stole her from either of you,” a doctor, tall, spectacled and white-jacketed, remarks drily.

       Maggie smiles, shrugs, and turns to her tablet while a nurse preps the equipment in the corner. Bucky’s two main doctors, both nearly forty years his seniors, are conferring quietly over the last exam’s results, undoubtedly refreshing themselves on the details, and no one’s watching as he peels off his shirt and sits on the edge of the table with it hanging loosely off relaxed fingertips. He’s used to this, been coming here for the past two years - it still doesn’t keep his shoulders from locking up, fingers forcefully relaxed so as to avoid showing off his tension.

      “Sorry, this is gonna’ sting,” one of the doctors murmurs, sliding a needle into the joint between carbon fiber and scar tissue.

      Bucky nods tightly, as he always does. He’s heard of people drifting away in too-intense situations, shutting off and going to a happier place, but he’s never been that lucky. Instead, his whole body’s a live wire - stripped of any protective coating and shoved under a spitting faucet. Tiny tremors course through his arms no matter how stubbornly he strives to shut them off, relax, and he can’t stop cataloging every movement the doctors make, no matter how careful and obvious they make their gestures.

      They take blood, check motor functions, blindfold him and ask him to type a letter with just his left hand. He misspells ‘conscience’ - as he has since he was six years old and first heard it - and passes the rest with customary ease. As soon as the last one’s through, his shirt’s tugged on over his head, and he’s out the door in a flash.

      Once outside, his lungs release, a wealth of air flooding in and washing out the anxiety that had been dancing over his nerves like a full corps de ballet. He presses his hand to his cheek, carbon fiber soothingly cool against the hot, dry flush of his skin.

      He can stare down murderers, gun down ambassadors - and he can’t go to the doctor’s office without panicking. Forcing his breath in and out to the slow, steady count of ten, he urges his legs into an easy, unhurried stride despite the constant scream of ‘run’ blaring through his body. It used to be worse, he knows, can still remember some of the more dramatic panic attacks he experienced the first few times he was held down, tested, touched - but that does little to make him feel less ridiculous. He should be able to do this.

      Instead, when he walks into the SHIELD headquarters across the street from the Tower, his fingers are still twitching antsily against his leg, tapping out Morse code or a jittery piano tune - he can’t tell which. He nods tersely to the receptionist, keys in his code, lets it scan his eye, his palm (left one, this time), and his fingerprints. If anyone ever tries to break into SHIELD, he always figures, they’ll catch them by the people screaming at the overly complicated security measures. Impregnable isn’t a word in a world with the Black Widow or Thor, but SHIELD’s damn close.

      “Sergeant,” Fury greets when the doors close behind Bucky.

       They’re on some sort of spring that keeps them from slamming and instead hush over the carpet with a polite deference to rival any servant’s. Bucky’s pretty sure that’s because of Stark and his occasional tantrums. Either way, Fury’s still studying his computer screen when they close, despite the greeting.

      “Director,” Bucky echoes, snapping to attention automatically.

      “At ease,” Fury orders languidly, finally glancing up, “We’ve got a new mission for you.”

       Bucky’s eyebrows lift ever-so-slightly, but he says nothing until Fury’s handed him a slim tablet and he’s opened up the files within. Immediately, his laughter bursts out in an ugly snort.

      “You want to me back up Captain America?” he scoffs. “The guy’s an Avenger - I think he’s taken care of.”

       Fury’s eye narrows slightly, and, not for the first time, Bucky wonders if that eyepatch doesn’t hide a laser rather than an empty socket. It would hardly be the most shocking thing he ever saw.

     “There are certain missions that require more...covert operatives than the Avengers,” he explains, clipped.

      Bucky blinks once.

     “You’re sending in a man wearing the American flag and calling it covert?” he prods, lips twitching in amusement.

      An expression remarkably well-matched to his name darkens Fury’s features immediately.

     “Make sure you get to that meet,” he snaps. "You are dismissed."

      Grinning and throwing off a lazy salute, Bucky pivots and ducks back through the door. He nods to the receptionist,  gets an absent smile back, and he’s out the door. There's a dinky little café - or, as the sign proclaims, _coffee lounge_ \- just across the street,  and wind chimes tinkle cheerily as he pushes open the door and steps inside. He's hardly a regular,  but the gold-tinted oak floors and soft brown walls give the place the feeling of comfort and warmth, like a muted haven from the cold rush of New York. It doesn’t hurt, either, that there's a chair and end table nestled into a corner that provides a perfect view of the whole shop and outside area as well as immediate access to the back exit.

     Settled into this chair with a ceramic mug of macchiato from the café's mix-matched collection,  Bucky leans back and flips the tablet over to unlock it. While less guarded than the actual bastion,  SHIELD’s tablet still takes two scans and a passcode before it unfurls its tidy folder of information on one Captain Steven Grant Rogers.

      _Born July 4, 1985_ \- he can’t help but scoff at that brilliant trivia before skimming down for more relevant information - _sole successful subject in Project Rebirth; enhanced strength,  agility, endurance, and cognitive abilities. Limits: unknown._ Grimacing faintly, Bucky flips through a few more pages in case something more intriguing is revealed: nearly everyone knows the story of Captain America's tragic debut of hunting down his good friend Erskine's assassin. It had been the first thing Bucky saw when he first woke up sans arm.

     Biting down on that thought and the memories trudged up by it, he skips the rest of the personnel file to read the mission parameters instead. It’s a simple one, just catching some radical scientist with funding from a mysterious source. To be honest, Bucky’s not even sure why SHIELD's involved, much less why they're sending Rogers. It looks like FBI-level stuff, if that. Bucky scowls and skims through the rest of the file. SHIELD doesn’t tell him everything, of course, just tells him what he needs to know - or at least,  what they think he needs to know. _Maybe it's just training,_ he thinks. _'s not like we've worked together before._ He can't help wondering, though, what possible outcome they’re worried about when putting their best soldier and best sniper on a team together.

     He shakes the thought from his head though and deposits his empty mug in the “dirty dishes” bin on the cafe’s counter before heading back to SHIELD. If he’s going to be up all night running after Captain America, he might as well try to catch a few hours of shut-eye now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going to attempt to do this whole "regular posting schedule" deal. (No promises on success with that)
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you so much for all the comments and kudos you guys have left; just getting one is enough to be exciting! Thanks a ton and hope you enjoy the story!


	3. Chapter 3

 

         It’s hours later, just before nightfall, and Bucky’s tucked up in the copilot seat when Rogers marches onto the quinjet. He glances toward the front but only hesitates a moment before settling down on one of the benches built into the jet walls with his matte shield leaning against his shins.  Somehow, his broad,  gilded frame seems small, subdued in the cavernous grey and black of the quinjet. For a brief moment,  Bucky feels a hint of pity slip down his shoulders at Rogers’s lonely figure and he wonders if he shouldn't have sat back there with him; before he can stand, though,  they’re taking off, and the thought goes up in smoke, leaving only an ashy imprint behind.

            He doesn’t know this pilot,  but they chat casually as they soar over the edge of the continent and out over the still black ocean. At first, a few white crests are still visible as they break against the shore, but they become fewer and fewer the farther out they fly. Watching the growing darkness below, obscured more so by the clouded sky and missing moon, a taut feeling of airlessness winds around his ribs, and Bucky pulls away from the window, fighting unwonted vertigo.

          “Scared of heights?" the pilot teases lightly.

           Bucky scoffs derisively but doesn't say anything.  It's not the height so much as the pull in his gut that whispers of an impending fall, but he doesn’t know how to say that. He doesn’t have any past trauma to cite for his fear of falling - even as a kid, the only bones he broke were from fights he started. That doesn't make the feeling any weaker, though.

            It only takes a few more hours before they're over land again, and then, they’re coasting to a gentle descent in a field just a few miles east of a small hamlet they'd flown over. Rogers stands as they begin to drift downward,  and Bucky uncurls from his seat to start unpacking and assembling his rifle. Rogers glances briefly towards him, snapping his cowl on, but it doesn't linger.

            “Ghost One comm check," Bucky intones absently, attaching his sling.

            "Loud and clear. Cap?" the pilot prompts.

            Rogers sighs, looking defeated.

            "Captain America check," he mutters quickly.

            "C'mon, Cap, little more patriotic fervor," the pilot teases, and Bucky chokes on a laugh.

            The look Rogers shoots both of them is anything but amused, but there’s little heat behind it.

             "You two done?" he asks,  and there's enough of an order in his tone for Bucky to understand why he's the leader of the Avengers.

             "Yeah, yeah," Bucky mutters before gesturing towards the open hatch. "Lead the way."

            He's supposed to find a perch to back Rogers, but first, there’s a two mile trek back towards the outskirts of the village to the warehouse they’re supposed to infiltrate. So, for now, he shifts his sling so that the rifle’s hanging down his back, and his hands are free to grab the beretta at his hip should anyone jump them in the quiet meadow. It hardly seems likely, but he still does occasional sweeps in between watching for stumps or holes in the ground.

            “No night vision?” Rogers asks after a few minutes.

            “No need,” Bucky replies easily.

            If it were much darker, he would, admittedly, but the moon’s starting to come out and whatever his variant of Erskine’s formula does, it’s enough to let him see clearly enough without too much strain even in the gloom. While he doubts he’ll ever be grateful for SHIELD’s repeated experiments in creating another super soldier, he can admit there are some benefits. Not that he’ll ever say that to Fury.

            They trudge through the dry, brittle weeds in silence, only the crunch of stems and rasp of their uniforms making any sound, and even those are more or less drowned out by the crickets chirring throughout the field. Finally, though, they reach a last hill before the warehouse, and Bucky stops, a clear line of sight through the broad bay doors across the last two hundred meters. There's light and movement throughout the doors and as much of the interior as he can see.

           "What is it?" Rogers asks,  frozen and tense by his side.

         His voice is little more than a sharp whisper, and Bucky glances at him, at the warehouse, and then at his feet before looking back to him.

        "Y'don't work with a lot of snipers, do you?" he remarks, voice no louder than Rogers but deliberately nonchalant. "You go in and get Doc Frankenstein and I stay here and cover you."

        Rogers’s silent a moment,  clearly eyeing the distance between them and the warehouse speculatively.

        "That's a long ways," he comments mildly.

        "I'm a hell of a shot," Bucky replies.

        A small, surprised grin flickers over Rogers' lips and he nods slightly. He takes a half step before pausing one more time to glance back.

        "And if I need hand-to-hand back up?" he checks.

         Bucky, in the middle of stretching out on the ground, pauses to lean on his right elbow and tap his ear piece with his left hand.

         "I'll come rescue you," he promises.

         Apparently satisfied, Rogers turns and marches straight at the building. _You've got to be shitting me_ \- but no, Rogers is actually headed straight at the warehouse like some inescapable beacon of truth, justice, and the American way. Swearing softly, Bucky ducks his head down and gets ready to shoot.

         The first one to notice Rogers has the same dumbfounded reaction as Bucky, and that confusion lands him in an unconscious heap just out of the doorway's warm light. Keeping part of his attention on the men and women still moving about the facility, Bucky tracks Rogers' progress through his scope as the captain neatly incapacitates three more. Then, finally, he's spotted.

         The men who move in now do so with an aggression and purpose that the first three lacked completely - they're the real guard. No individual is enough to take on Rogers, but by the time Rogers has decked one with the broad side of his shield, there are ten of them. Numbers and space are on their side, and they’re using them - having encircled Rogers, they dart in in twos and threes while the remainder flanks Rogers and blocks any maneuvering he attempts. _My turn._

        Taking in a steady breath, Bucky sights on a burly brunette to Rogers' left, exhales - shoots. One down, seven to go. Rogers' flinches but only for a millisecond - a fraction of the hesitation his opponents show. It's enough. He throws himself into a flurried offensive against those ahead of him, edge of his shield catching cheeks, chins, and throats. It’s brutal and rough, and Bucky can't help wondering if, like his comic namesake, Rogers didn't learn how to fight by fending off bullies  in the back alleys of Brooklyn. Between his opponents' surprise and Bucky’s aim, though, the guards don't stand a chance. Those who don't end up knocked out out on the floor end with a bullet through their skulls,  and, either way, they’re no longer in Rogers' way. Once they've all dropped, Rogers turns to throw a salute Bucky’s way before heading deeper into the warehouse. Despite himself,  Bucky grins.

         He has to shimmy a little lower on the hill to follow Rogers' path into the warehouse and take down a few more attackers,  but it's only a few minutes before Rogers ducks down a metal staircase and is lost to view anyway. After that, Bucky has nothing to do but wait. And wait.

         He’s just gotten to the second theme of _Hungarian Dance No. 5_ when his comm sparks alive with a loud, breathless shout and the sounds of gunfire.

         "Could use that rescue now, Ghost One," Rogers calls, voice strained.

         Before he's finished, Bucky’s already swung his rifle back into a carry and is running down the shallow slope.

        "What'd you do, insult their mom?" He demands as the gunfire crescendos.

         "Something like that," Rogers grunts.

         As he passes the front entrance and the slowly awakening thugs, the gunfire gets louder, louder and he follows it down the stairs and left around a bend. Abruptly, it stops. Training his hearing on the end of the hall, Bucky slows and softens his steps before pausing just to the side of the busted-out doorway.

         It’s quiet in there except for twin sets of ragged breathing - neither one Rogers.

        "Captain,  you there?" Bucky checks, voice dropped as low as it can go.

        "Yeah. Where're you?" Rogers whispers back.

         Releasing a slow breath, Bucky slips the strap off his beretta and slowly slides it out of its holster.  From their breathing,  he can guess one’s hunkered down off to the left of the door and the other’s a ways further in from the first.  

         "Just outside the door. If I get the one by the door, you got the other?" he checks.

         "Sure," Rogers answers.

         "On three," Bucky adds. "One. Two. Three."

         He ducks into the room, beretta out and aimed straight towards the crouching, startled guard. As the bullet cracks out, someone else's gun does, too. Dropping down, Bucky throws his left arm up. He twists to shoot - and the gun man's already crumpling to the ground with a hefty round shield on top of him. Rogers heads over to pick it up, and as Bucky stands, he gives him a grateful nod.

       "Didn't even see him there," he remarks mildly.

       "Yeah," Rogers replies absently,  studying something over by the downed shooter. "I think - there’s a door here."

       Picking his way over through the room, Bucky arrives just as Steve yanks on a panel and the heavy metal door rasps open. Beyond stretches a hallway with only theatre-like floor lights to illuminate its cool, dry length. Bucky meets Rogers' gaze with his own, gets a shrug, and they head in.

       Their footsteps echo in muffled taps, muted and stifled by the pressing silence all around them. Every so often, Bucky thinks he hears faint voices, cut-off calls - but surely that’s just the quiet playing tricks on him. He doesn’t mention it to Steve, doesn’t mention how familiar this hallway that expands into a sterile operating room only to contract back down to a straight-shooting hallway once more makes his shoulder itch with memories, long-lost fingers twitching for his gun. He pushes it down and away and focuses on ignoring the ringing memory of dying men’s last cries.

        He does glance over at Rogers,  wonders if this reminds him of his own transition into something no longer human - but no, Captain America was made in a well-lit hospital with clinicians,  physicians,  nurses, and an observation room full of John Hopkins grad students.  He doesn’t know anything about months spent in a dim, sewer-like basement with desperate doctors working at gunpoint.

        They turn into a new operating room, though,  and any lingering fear or horror is covered like a pen mark under arterial spray. The reek of piss and sweat buffet them in stale walls of stench, like they’ve been lingering in here to mourn over their former owners’ corpses for a century. The bodies on the operating tables - six, that Bucky can see - are all in various stages of decomposition from just dead to nearly skeletal.

       Whoever was working here wasn't just interested in functioning bodies - probes and bands stretch open certain corpses' half-rotten chest cavities, lenses posed studiously over the exposed innards. The freshest body is still warm when Bucky brushes his live fingers over its neck.  The more skeletal ones are surrounded by vats and tubs of their own muscle and flesh like Kaiju guts from that one sci-fi movie Clint made him watch in order to wax poetic about the optimism of the future generations coming together to fight giant sea aliens. Bucky hadn't paid much mind to the actual movie at the time - he'd been distracted by the glossy black plastic replacing his left hand. Now, though, he's painfully reminded of oozing goo and rotting flesh.

        He's about to ask Rogers if he's seen the movie when something clatters down at the opposite end of the laboratory, and they both bolt in the same direction. This hallway's trashed, paper and utensils scattered throughout as if to make an obstacle course for a chihuahua, and the clatters their feet make as they dart down it echo and shout off the slick stone walls like a panicked mob , but there's the faintest flicker of a silhouette running ahead of them so they don't pause to worry about the noise too much. If the gunfire and shouts weren't enough to alert any occupants of the building to their location, well, they wouldn't have found poison freshly pumped into an eighteen year old kid's veins.  

        They make it through the hallway, skid into a staircase and dart right up it all the way to the roof. They're super soldiers. Rogers' has got the synthetic blood of God coursing through his veins, and Bucky's got the bastard child of the same thing - so how in the hell is some shmuck in a trench coat keeping abreast of them? He gets his answer - or something like it - when they reach the very top of the roof to find a personal spaceship sliding open its glass door. Stark's going to shit himself, Bucky thinks blankly. There are probably more reasonable thoughts to have at the moment, but he's coming up short.

        "Stop!" Rogers demands, like some evil scientist is going to listen to the Good Guy's commanding tone.

        "There is no stopping this, Captain Rogers!" the figure calls back, voice shrill and manic. "This is the future! This is the new breed - look at yourself; can you deny it? Why hold back from your true nature?”

        "Oh, shut the fuck up," Bucky complains, pulling back on his trigger.

        The shot flies true, just as his always do, directly into the man's forehead. This time, though, the man man doesn't crumple to the ground in a small puddle of blood with fragments of brain and skull scattered throughout. Instead, he - he laughs - but there's something off. Lights are blinking on on the spaceship, illuminating slightly too-loose skin around the figure's eyes and hairline. For a moment, Bucky wonders if the man's wearing a fake skin - a shitty version of the ones Natasha sometimes uses on missions where the Black Widow's a little too obvious.

       "We are the new men, Captain! Wake up! Erskine would not have wanted you to waste your talents on such menial tasks," the figure continues. "Babysat by your secret service and paraded about like a toy. You were meant for more than this. Join us, Captain - become who you were supposed to be."

       There's something...riveting about the man. His voice is infused with passion and belief as if he's a corner missionary preaching the Word of God to any and all who'll listen. Despite himself, Bucky feels himself lowering his beretta, watching with head cocked.

       "Come with us and we can talk. Who's this 'we' you're talking about?" Rogers calls.

       To be fair, it's not a terrible attempt. But, still, it's more than a little obvious. The man cackles, full-on, head thrown back laughter  and - and, oh my god is he ripping-? The fake skin guess apparently rings true as he peels off a fleshy prosthetic to reveal scarlet, plasticy skin below.

       Bucky's beretta is up and aiming before more than three unconscious syllables can be strung together. As before, they do nothing but drop out of the waxy surface, but it seems to stir Rogers into action again. He bulls forward, lunging to grab the man - but already, the man's ducked into the spaceship and it's pulling off its dock and towards the sky.

        Left behind with only the glow of the half-hidden moon and the propulsors of the spaceship - _jet?_ \- Bucky and Rogers stand frozen.

        "You aren't hiding one of those, are you?" Bucky finally asks, voice faint.

        "Uh. No. I don't think so," Rogers manages after a moment.

         Bucky nods absently.

         "Well, that's good. People'd have a fit," he comments.

          Rogers turns and stares at Bucky for a moment, face unreadable with the light of the moon behind him.

         "Wanna' clean up downstairs?" Bucky suggests before Rogers decides to ask how the hell he passed any sort of psych eval for field work.

         "Yeah. Yeah, we should - do. That," Rogers agrees brokenly.

          They do make it back downstairs, after Bucky clicks on his comm and calls in the quinjet, but they don't last too long. The stink is getting to Bucky, crowding up his nostrils like plague, and Steve's nearly translucent from the way he's clenching his teeth and clearly trying not to breathe.  

         Instead,  after a crew stationed nearby comes in, the pilot sends them both out front to catch some air. Bucky leans back against the warehouse wall in a lazy half-crouch, and Rogers stands just ahead of him so that his face is hidden from view. Memories are pressing at the backs of Bucky's eyes like probes, itching for the light, and he grits his teeth in an attempt to wall them out. He hasn't spent the last year fighting to prove he’s okay just to fall apart now. _One...two..._ he attempts, trying to match his breathing to the slow,  steady count. It doesn’t work.

          Finally, he focuses in on Rogers, ignoring his own self completely in the hopes of being distracted. His broad shoulders are taut, fingers skimming ruminatively over the edge of his shield, and even without his backwater enhancements,  Bucky would would be able to hear the guy's gears turning.

         "Hey, don't worry about  the nut, 'kay?" Bucky offers, watching him. "He pulled his own face off - not exactly a good advisor."

         Rogers laughs, the sound startled and a little brittle. He turns perhaps thirty degrees towards Bucky, clearly watching his face.

         "Yeah?" he remarks.

         Bucky shrugs his right shoulder lazily. His breathing has slowed; it's still a little up, but no more than if he went foe a short jog. He keeps his eyes on Rogers.

         "Sure. You saved the world from aliens. Probably wouldn't have done that without a little bit of care for we lesser folk."

         He can't see Rogers' face well, but he can feel the heavily speculative look he's being given. He doesn't press, just lets the guy think. By the time Rogers' shoulders relax, Bucky’s breathing is back to normal.

         "Your arm," Rogers starts after a moment. "You - uh - got hit, didn't you? Need it checked out?"

         Bucky scoffs a quiet laugh .

         "Yeah, well, while some of you are becoming  superhuman, I'm going cyborg," he answers drily, lifting his left hand to wiggle the carbon fiber fingers.

         They catch the moonlight enough to glint in a manner clearly not flesh-like, and he's acutely grateful for the darkness disguising Rogers' undoubtedly pitying expression.

         "Oh. Shit," Rogers swears. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

         "Yeah, yeah," Bucky brushes him off. "Don't worry about it."

         Before Rogers can offer any more apologies, the crew starts rolling out of the warehouse with gurneys and cases full of whatever evidence they've gleaned from the laboratory.

          "Ready to go,?" the pilot asks, pausing between the two of them.

          "Yeah, let's," Rogers agrees.

          They load onto the quinjet behind the gurneys and boxes, and this time, Bucky sits back with Steve. Neither one says anything for a while, and Steve runs a gloved finger around the top edge of his shield as if tracing his thoughts into the rim. Bucky, meanwhile, dismantles his rifle and stows it before dropping back onto the bench beside Rogers and beginning to unbuckle his suit. It's not terribly uncomfortable, all things considered, but there's a definite relief as the tight straps release their hold across his chest. Even the most flexible of combat gear is still meant for defense, no matter how much money SHIELD’s poured into its design.

          Rogers glances over once, as if concerned Bucky's going to start peeling off his full suit and dancing about the jet. Once it's clear he's just loosening  up the straps and not pulling out his Vegas act, Rogers relaxes back against the wall of the jet and turns his attention back to the shield. Tilting his head back against the jet , Bucky closes his eyes and  releases a slow breath.  

        "You okay?" Rogers queries.

         Bucky opens his eyes to glance to the side, .

         "Sure," he affirms.

          _Nothing like seeing a bunch of cut-up corpses to brighten your day_ , he adds drily. It shouldn't bother him, shouldn't make him feel like there are hands creeping around his neck and wrists, trapping him. Natasha,  he knows,  would roll her eyes and tell him to actually use the therapists SHIELD provides. It’s not that there's anything wrong with therapy, he knows logically, but there’s still something mortifying about going to someone else to complain. Every other member of his company died over there - a few nightmares and phantom pains aren’t exactly a high cost for getting to live.

         "It's been a while," he finally admits when he can still feel Rogers' gaze on him after he's turned his eyes again.

         Rogers is quiet a little longer, and the only sound is that of the jets propulsors and the occasional creak of the gurneys' wheels against their transport straps.

         "The other day - that was-?” he finally asks.

         "Yeah, I didn't mean 'bodyguard' quite so literally," Bucky replies with a huff.

          Cracking his eyes open, he's startled and quietly please to see a faint, gratified grin on Rogers' face.

         "I wondered," Rogers laughs. "I mean, you just - yeah."

          Despite himself, Bucky snorts a laugh at Rogers' stammering.

         "Anyone ever tell you you got a way with words?" he teases.

         "Yeah, well, some of us don’t get a lot of prac-" Rogers breaks off. "You know what, I'm just going to stop."

         "Start over?" Bucky offers after stifling laughter for a few more moments.

         The look Rogers sends him is gratitude more befitting of a rescue mission than merely offering a second chance at conversation, and once again, Bucky thinks they poured a little more sunlight into Rogers’ veins than super-serum.

         “So, you live in Brooklyn or..?" Rogers prompts after a moment.

         "Thereabouts," Bucky agrees. " How come you aren't in Stark's tower? Seems like a nice place."

         Rogers shifts slightly, stretching out his legs and moving his shield to the side.  His expression is undecided, but his posture is relaxed and comfortable as opposed to the nervous tension he’d worn like an ill-fitting coat outside the warehouse.

           "Yeah. It's just a little..." he trails off, lips quirking at the corner.

           "Overwhelming?" Bucky supplies, remembering what Natasha had said the first time he saw her post-New York.

            Steve nods, his expression still thoughtful.

           "Yeah. The team's great and all," he explains, "but - well, I guess I'm not used to being around so many people all the time."

           "Anyway," he adds after a moment, "Brooklyn's home."

           "Sap," Bucky yawns, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

           A soft huff of surprise chuffs out of Rogers' lips, and Bucky stifles a grin.

           "Alright, Ghost," Rogers starts, voice dry. "What's your story, then? Just hang around helping  kids being bullied all the time?"

          "Yeah, well," Bucky shrugs, "not like I can let Captain America get his punk ass beat when I'm right there to stop it."

           "Oh, okay, jerk," Rogers laughs. "Christ, you'd get along with Tony well,."

           Bucky grimaces, shifts to the side to avoid a nub on the wall that's been pressing into the base of his skull.

          "Not according to Nat," he remarks.

            _You two'd eat each other alive_ , she'd said at the time. Bucky hadn't pressed it, had merely accepted her judgment and hefty sigh as she dropped onto the couch and wrapped up cocoon-style in the quilt off his bed. He hadn't even gotten the chance to ask how she'd managed to get into the apartment, steal the blanket, and make it to the couch when he'd been in the kitchen for the past half hour with full view of the apartment. She'd dropped immediately off to sleep, and he'd only bothered her to slide a pillow under her head and neaten the blanket around her bare feet. They aren’t anything more than friends now, but  both of them have a tendency to keep their friendships close, and that doesn’t change just because, once upon a time, they'd slept together.

            "Nat?" Rogers echoes.

           "Mm," Bucky agrees. "Natasha - your Widow."

            He pauses after saying that, pursing his lips at the odd phrasing but ultimately lets it go. Rogers probably knows what he means. Hopefully.

           "Oh, you two know each other?" Rogers asks, voice suddenly a strange  off-tone from his previous accent.

           "Yeah," Bucky affirms.

            Rogers falls quiet after that, and Bucky cracks an eye open to glance over briefly. Rogers is back to studying his shield, though, and his shoulders are a little more withdrawn.

            "Don’t worry," Bucky offers, "she hasn't said anything to terrible 'bout you."

            Glancing up in surprise, Rogers' lips twitch a little as if amused or maybe pleased. Before he can reply, though, the quinjet comm clicks on.

            "Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes?" the pilot calls.

            Rogers leans forward, expression expectant - and suddenly flushed as he realizes the pilot can't actually see him.

           "Yes?" he replies.

           "We're about five minutes from headquarters," the pilot explains. "Director Fury asks that you two remain in the facility until he has a chance to debrief you."

           "Yes, sir," Rogers  replies promptly.

           Bucky grimaces, tapping his left fingers against the bench. He hates waiting, has always been terrible at it. It doesn’t seem seem to seem to matter how many hours he spends hunkered down behind behind his rifle, waiting for the shot: as soon as he's waiting on someone else's call, he’s antsy as a six year old on a sugar high. It makes him feel small, helpless, like a hammer waiting to be directed against the nail. His fingers click quietly, plastic against metal, and Rogers glances across at them curiously. Once again, Bucky steels himself for the inevitable questions.

          “I know we can’t leave the building, but I hear the cafeteria’s got free coffee - if you, uh, wanted to grab some,” he offers instead.

          “Trying to put that super serum to the test?” Bucky replies drily, grinning faintly.

          “Well,” Rogers shrugs easily, “got nothin’ better to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, big thank you for you guys' kudos, bookmarks, and comments! They really, really do make it more fun to write.
> 
> Re: the story, uh...I'm shit about doing research, so anything regarding combat, sniping, therapy, panic attacks, etc - all total BS and best guesstimates. Sorry!
> 
> Also, I think this is the longest chapter in the story (so far, anyway; I'm on Ch7 right now), so my apologies.


	4. Chapter 4

    "...and that's why I'm no longer allowed to play frisbee with Thor," Rogers finishes with a shrug.

     Bucky's head's down on the table, shoulders hiccuping with laughter to the point that his stomach is nothing but a cramped wall of abused muscle and his cheeks are wet with tears. They’ve been here for a few hours by Bucky’s best guess, refilling their cups repeatedly despite their incessant remarks about how terrible it is and swapping stories - none too personal, but all gradually getting a little closer as the night - _morning?_ \- progresses.

    "You - how did that even-?" Bucky breaks off, biting down on his laughter as he glances up at Rogers.

     Rogers shrugs, grinning.

     "Clint recorded the whole thing, but I think SHIELD destroyed all copies," he explains, voice overly rueful. "I'd be happy to show you otherwise."

     "Yeah, I think my imagination will suffice," Bucky snorts. "Christ. Nat did not do you justice."

      Rogers still has that stupid grin on his face, a little proud and a whole lot of sun, but it slips a little at Bucky’s comment.

      "So, are you two -?" he asks, cutting off pointedly.

      Shaking his head slightly, Bucky props himself up on his elbow and takes a sip of the bitter, shitty coffee the cafeteria offers.

      "Friends," he answers firmly. "Known each other since I started here."

       Something eases in Rogers' shoulders and he nods slightly.

       "I'm glad," he says before his eyes widen slightly and a vague look of panic enters them. "I mean, that she has friends. She's tough, but - it’s uh - it’s - good.”

        Caught off guard, Bucky eyes Rogers for a moment.The other’s man’s cheeks are brightened by a faint flush, gaze planted firmly on the paper cup of coffee dwarfed by his broad hands.

       "Yeah. Like I said: sap," Bucky scoffs, no heat to it.

        Rogers smiles a little, eyes slipping up to glance over at Bucky’s face instead of at his coffee.

        Before either can say anything more, though, a black-clad agent steps into the cafeteria, looking around purposefully until spotting Rogers and heading straight over. Once she nears, she seems to register Bucky's presence, but it isn't until she's within five or so meters of the table.

       "Captain Rogers?" she asks. "Director Fury will see you now."

        Rogers nods and stands, waiting for Bucky to toss his coffee cup away before heading after the agent through the cafeteria door. They don't speak through the hallways, and the tense line has returned to Rogers' shoulders, but Bucky doesn't mention it - it's not his place.

        Bucky’s vest is still hanging half-open when they enter Fury’s office, but the Director’s gaze barely brushes over him before focusing on Rogers. His desk is clean as ever, even though Bucky knows he has to have been going through the information the crew sent back.

        "Director Fury,” Rogers greets, voice even and tautly polite.

        “Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” Fury returns drily, “sit.”

        A glance between Rogers’ tense shoulders and Fury’s disinterested but focused gaze tells Bucky exactly where he lies in this conversation, and he drops easily into one of the chairs opposite Fury, fingers tapping against the armrest.

       “The warehouse you infiltrated has been traced to an old extremist Nazi sect called HYDRA,” Fury starts, voice bored.

        _‘Extremist Nazi sect’?_ Bucky scoffs silently.

       “Started under Hitler’s head of science, Johann Schmidt, the program's been continued  through his successors, all called 'Red Skull.'  Supposedly, they were wiped out in 1945 with the end of Nazi funding," Fury pauses, annoyed. "Clearly, that was false. Their main objective seems to be creating their own super soldiers: there's documentation of experiments on prisoners of war since World War Two."

        Rogers' lips pinch tighter  and guilt seems to seep into his expression.  Bucky spares him a brief look of curiosity before shifting his gaze back to the edge of Fury's wood desk, silent and unobtrusive.  Whatever Fury’s getting at, he's out of luck: Bucky has nothing to add about captivity and experimentation.

        "We can't tell where they're getting their funding yet, but their facilities are limited - seventy years of living underground hasn't let them flourish.  " he finishes for a moment to pause and eye the two of them as if already regretting his next words. "You two are in charge of taking care of them."

        For a moment, the entire room is frozen as if by static electricity - charged and taut but immobile.

       "Excuse me?" Rogers asks finally.

       "The Avengers are big-fry," Fury explains, leaning back with fingertips interlaced, "but some baddies are little fish, Cap.  They still need taken care of. Till the next alien comes flying down to Earth trying to take over, I'm putting you on active duty with Barnes. You got a problem with that?"

       "No sir," Rogers answers promptly.

       "Wouldn't Strike Team Delta be a better team for this type of op?" Buck asks flatly. “You’ve been clear about my involvement in SHIELD ops recently.”

       He's a little proud of how much resentment he manages to keep out his tone, but it's still not entirely blameless: he’d made it perfectly clear upon coming back into the world that he was ready for whatever SHIELD had for him, whether it was high-level or even babysitting; anything would be better than sitting in his empty apartment jumping at every backfired car.  SHIELD had been equally clear in telling him they'd let him know when they wanted him to come in - and then not calling for seven months.

      It has nothing to do with the phantom fingers he feels pressing into the flesh of his shoulder and peeling open his eyes, no matter what Fury’s look says.

      "You two are plenty qualified," Fury answers.

       Biting back any retort he might have, Bucky hunches down a little in his chair and waits for the meeting to finish. There's not much more, just a quick explanation of their next go-time and location, and then they're dism

       "Barnes, I'd like a word," Fury remarks as Bucky rises.

       It’s not unexpected, but it still sends a tickle of irritation down his spine. He stands at attention still, because he’s not quite suicidal enough to backtalk Fury too much.

       “You keep your eyes on him,” Fury orders. “Rogers is known for being a bit of a loose cannon - any signs of that, you report directly to me. Understood?”

        _Yeah, ‘cause Captain America’s really gonna’ do something terrible_ , Bucky thinks sharply, eyes narrowing slightly.

       "Are there going to be any problems with this operation?" Fury asks, cold and flat.

       "No, sir," Bucky answers dutifully.

       "You make sure of that," Fury orders after a pause. "You're dismissed."

        Bucky nods sharply and stalks out of the room. Immediately outside, Rogers is leaning against the wall with thumbs hooked in his belt, and he glances up when Bucky  steps out. His expression is cautious but a little concerned, as if he's worried Fury just chewed Bucky out for something.

        "Everything alright?" he checks.

        "Dandy," Bucky replies, a little sharper than he means to.

         Rogers nods, taking Bucky's terse response in stride and moving on, and they start back down the hallway towards the locker rooms in silence. After a few moments of sulking and Shifting restlessly through his thoughts,  Bucky sighs and relents.

         "Sorry," he mutters.

         "It's okay," Rogers answers,  voice perfectly polite.

         "No, I mean," Bucky pauses, scrubs a hand through his short hair. "I just don't like marching to Fury’s drum."

         Rogers stops for a moment, giving Bucky a considering look. Before Bucky has a chance to do much more than wonder if he should have really admitted that to Captain America,  Rogers starts walking again, but his face has list some of its bland politesse in favor of a faint scowl.

         "Me neither," he admits readily, if a little softly.  "He has too many secrets."

         "I think that kinda' comes with the business, Cap," Bucky points out.

         "Yeah," Rogers replies, "but I think he has to lie so much he sometimes forgets what's actually true."

          They’ve reached the locker rooms, and they separate to go to their lockers, but Rogers' words linger in Bucky's mind as he peels off his vest, tosses it into his locker and strips down the rest of the way before ducking into the shower for a quick, methodical scrub down. Washing away the sweat and dirt from the mission doesn't do anything to wipe away metaphorical or remembered blood, but it does busy his hands while he mulls over Rogers' words.

          Once he's out, mostly dry and dressed, he grabs his phone from his locker, slides a thumb  across the screen to unlock it and flips through his unread messages - three, because Natasha forgot where the cilantro was until after an hour of searching. He scrubs his hand through his wet hair - left because his phone may be smart but it still can't figure out that mechanical fingertips act a lot like flesh-and-blood ones - and types out a quick message back asking her to check the fridge because he’s going to be gone for a while.

          Rogers has paused beside the door to leave, frowning down at the tablet in his hand, and he glances up when Bucky nears.

          "Checking details?" Bucky asks, stopping as well.

          "Yeah. We're shipping out at oh-nine-hundred," Rogers replies. "Probably a good thing I don't have a cat to worry about."

          Bucky's lips purse in stifled laughter at the comment, and he opens his mouth to respond - only for his phone to start buzzing like a trapped cicada. Holding up one finger to still Rogers, he swipes it unlocked to answer Natasha.

         "James, what's going on?" she demands immediately, voice a little breathless.

         "Hello to you, too," Bucky replies drily. "Just an op, Nat. Nothing to worry about."

           She's quiet on the other end, but there's a few thuds and groans fill in that space.

           "You bought new milk yesterday, James. If it was a regular op, you wouldn't be asking me to make sure it doesn't spoil," she retorts. "What's going on?"

            He grimaces slightly at her accuracy.

           "Fury has an extended op. It's nothing big," Bucky explains. "Just gonna' take a while."

           There's another thud on the other end of the phone, and Natasha snaps something he can't quite make out.

           "Fine. You make sure you get back, James," she orders, voice hard. 

          "Yeah, yeah, Mama Hen," he teases back. "Talk to you later."

           She grunts in affirmation and hangs up. Rogers is smiling faintly, watching him with evident amusement, and Bucky gives him his best disapproving look.

           "Not judging," Rogers declares immediately, lifting his hands palms outward. "It's cute."

           "Oh, shut it," Bucky grumbles. "C'mon, let's get breakfast."

            Rogers laughs aloud but turns the tablet to sleep and turns to walk out the door beside Bucky.

            "So what are they serving today in our fine cuisine?” Bucky queries drily.

            "Well, I hear here's scrambled eggs au gratin , and some great blackened toast," Rogers replies.

             At that, Bucky perks up a little in surprise.

             "Really? They never have real food," he asks.

             "Uh, no," Rogers admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think they might have some freeze-dried eggs, though?"

             "Tease," Bucky grumbles back .

             Rogers grins back, and before they've gone more than a few feet, they're deep into a familiar bantering that feels as comfortable as Bucky's favorite leather jacket.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I promise, eventually, there's going to be Stucky in this thing (probably not explicit because my smut-writing skills are basically equivalent to my driving skills [aka nonexistent]), but that's a pretty important 'eventually.' 
> 
> On a related-ish note, if I were to start doing bi-weekly updates, would you want it like Tues-Thurs, Mon-Fri, or Mon-Thurs? (Or if you have a better suggestion!)
> 
> As always, thanks so much for the support, and if you have any questions/comments, feel free to post them! (:


	5. Chapter 5

        Within the first few weeks of being out on the op, Bucky and Rogers quickly establish a rhythm to their movements around each other. Their positions in the field don't change except for a few times when they need a more subtle entrance than breaking down the door or Rogers needs an extra hand. Outside of the actual operation, though, they trade roles like clothes; usually, Rogers picks up the food while Bucky writes up their report, but when there's more paperwork than usual or Rogers didn't get a chance to call Bucky in before the building exploded,  then Rogers stays in and Bucky either wanders back to their one-star hotel with thirty pounds of food or orders in. When they're out of any big city, that job falls to Bucky more and more. Rogers’ rudimentary French can only go so far.

         Tonight, they’re back in London for a day, and it’s Rogers’ turn to pick, which is why they end up crunching on toasted wraps and watching Top Gear reruns while reading through the files SHIELD sent. Bucky’s already skimmed through the ones for him and rattled off a quick report to Fury - _Mission progressing. Cap'n Rogers approx. as rebellious as Washington_ \- and is just watching now while Rogers continues to read and underline his file. He never considered it too much - his foster parents at graduation time would have had perfectly coifed lawyers for kids if only God hadn’t made them both women - but he imagines that, in another life, he would happily be a mechanic.  Something about the deft logic of how each thing fits in its place has always appealed to him. Despite that, his attention keeps getting drawn away from the show by the itching buzz of being watched.

         "Either ask or stop staring, Rogers," he finally remarks, glancing over.

        Rogers at least has the good grace to look embarrassed, a soft flush pinking his cheeks. He glances down and rubs the back of his neck.

        "Sorry. It's just - I uh," he stammers before huffing out a breath and pausing.

        Bucky turns his focus back to the TV, waiting for the same questions always asked. _Yes, I lost it in the war.  Yes, it's Stark Industries. No, I can't get you Tony Stark's signature. No, it doesn't shoot rockets._

        "Can you feel?" Rogers bursts out.

        _That...is not what I was expecting._  Bucky turns slightly to give him a dry look.

         "Yes, Rogers. I'm not Terminator," he replies.

        "No, I mean, can it feel. Like," Rogers pauses, wiggles his own fingers, "touch and stuff."

        _Oh_. Bucky stares blankly at Rogers for a moment, startled. For all the questions he gets about the arm, they’re always about how he got it, not about how it effects him.

        "Um," he finally starts, dropping his gaze to the lax prosthetic laying on his thigh. "Sort of. I mean, it's just pressure, not heat or anything, but yeah. Probably wouldn't shoot with it, you know."

        Rogers nods thoughtfully, brows furrowed.

        "Does that bother you?" he queries.

        "Alright, Mr. Therapist," Bucky scoffs, but Rogers’ expression is one of genuine concern. "I don't know. I'm pretty used to it by now."

        There's another little nod, and Rogers looks down to shuffle his papers before stacking them neatly on the nightstand. They watch the rest of the show in silence and then a few more episodes before, by silent agreement, they switch it off and head to bed.

        "Hey, Barnes, " Rogers calls across the room once the lights are out, “thanks for - y’know - telling me all that.”

        “Hey Rogers,” Bucky answers, “it’s only Barnes to Fury.”

        He hears a soft laugh.

        “Alright, Bucky,” Rogers replies, as if testing the name out, “but you’ve gotta’ stop calling me Rogers then.”

       “I think I can manage that, Captain America,” Bucky retorts.

       He’s grinning faintly when he closes his eyes.

       “Jerk,” Steve mutters.

      “Punk,” Bucky answers.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the start of bi-weekly updates! Yay! Finally! Also, the Stucky has been written! Finally! ALL THE EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!
> 
> also I sort of forgot how short this chapter was. oops.


	6. Chapter 6

Moldova, Bucky thinks, would probably be beautiful in an archaic, pastoral way if it weren't for the rain currently pouring down. In his black jacket, hood up, he's mostly protected, but that doesn't make his rifle grip any dryer or vision any clearer.

"This is shit," he grumbles.

"Agreed," Steve grunts, still wrestling with the oxidized lock.

Bucky watches for a few more moments, tucking his right hand into his armpit. It’s their third month out here, fourth day in Moldova specifically, and while he hasn't exactly fallen in love with the op, he’s no longer itching to get back to the states as badly as he was before.

"I thought you were supposed to be a super soldier, " he remarks after probably the sixteenth try.

Steve huffs a sigh and drops his hands to his hips.

"Why don’t you try it?" he retorts.

Pausing only a moment, Bucky hunches down a little closer to his scope and releases his hand to steady the rifle.

"Step back," he orders.

Through his scope, he can see Steve shoot him a startled, confused look, but he moves away from the door anyway. Bucky lines up the sight, pauses to count down his breaths, and fires.

"Shit," Steve murmurs appreciatively as the busted lock drops to the sodden ground. "I don't think I'm ever going to get used to that."

He's shaking his head slightly as he reaches to yank the door open and walk in, and Bucky grins a little to himself. People tend to be startled and appreciative about his sharp shooting for about as long as it takes them to start putting themselves in his targets' place. Then, rapidly, it turns to unnerved smiles and a degree of caution anytime any gun's within his reach. Steve, though, seems to simply trust Bucky and minces no words in his gratitude for Bucky’s ability. It's led to more than a little showing off, if Bucky's honest.

"What do you say - _clear_ \- we try out that bar - _clear_ \- for dinner?" Steve asks as he checks the factory's interiors. "That one - _clear_ \- by the hotel."

Bucky grins and hunkers down with his hand back between his side and arm. He's still watching through the scope, but Steve is already out of his line of sight anyway.

"You asking me on a date, Rogers?" he teases.

Over the sound of a door banging open, Steve makes a choked sound, and Bucky can perfectly imagine his bright blush and mortification.

"Yeah, sounds good," he relents. "See if one of us can't get drunk."

Steve snorts, offers another _clear_ , and then starts making his way down into the basement.

"That bad to go out with me, huh?" he jokes.

"Terrible," Bucky affirms. 

There's a huff of laughter on the other end of the comm, a little distracted. Taking a quick survey via binoculars, Bucky pauses to focus on a patch of shadow that seems to shift near the corner of the building. It’s faint, little more than a flutter, but he drops down to watch through his scope instead, hands shifting to the rifle’s body.

But it's not a human that steps out of the shadows. A paw appears first, pale grey fur incongruous in the dark, rainy evening, and then it’s a pointed nose, gold eyes. A brief memory of something about forty years’ absence and a startling return flits through Bucky’s mind, but it barely skims his consciousness before fleeing once more. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky breathes, frozen. 

While never the most religious of men, Bucky believes a little too strongly in God to put a lot of credit in spirit animals and similar superstitions. For a few gravity-less seconds, however, that disbelief is suspended. He’s seen plenty of pictures of wolves, of course, but they fade like fog before the keenness of the live creature’s presence. It seems to hold his gaze, gold eyes unreadable and cool from nearly three hundred meters out – before it turns and vanishes abruptly back into the darkness.

It’s this abrupt departure that sends Bucky’s stomach twisting and somersaulting into his gut. The comm’s silent. There isn’t so much as a whisper of Steve’s breath.

“Rogers?” he calls quietly. “Captain, are you there?” 

Nothing. 

Before he’s made much of a conscious decision, Bucky’s dropping his rifle and ducking down through the gloomy woods towards the building’s gaping black maw. If the wet branches of the forest seem a little more ominous, like crooked fingers raking across his face – well, it’s only his imagination.

Inside the facility, it’s dark and dry with a musty odor lingering in the air like perfume of ages past. Bucky keeps to the shadows, but they’re broad enough in here for him to waltz and still remain safe. The first floor’s clear as far as he can tell – he’s only taking the barest survey before following the stairs down – and down, and down. He doesn’t try to raise Rogers on the comm again, just trips down what feels like seventeen spiraling flights of stairs until the only available light comes from a few tiny floor lights every six or so steps. His hand’s trailing down the guardrail now, left fingering his beretta like a security blanket.

Finally reaching a platform, he pauses for a moment in front of the three hallways before catching the faintest sound of screams down the leftmost hall. _Not now_ , he orders his ghosts. Like all poltergeists, they ignore him and crescendo slightly until – _but they can’t be real_. Swallowing hard and vowing to go see that therapist Natasha’s been telling him to, Bucky turns down the hallway and runs.

It’s only three doors down, and by then, the screaming is clearly audible, if not overly loud. The door’s plain as the rest, just black metal with a safety-glass window cut about five and a half feet up and midway in. Through it, Bucky can just see the red edge of the shield. Jiggling the knob, he swears at its firm lock and pats himself down in pursuit of a pick. 

“Shit,” he breathes as he comes up with none. “Shit shit _shit_.” 

Forcing himself to pause and release a rough-edged breath, he counts to ten and stares hard at the door. The screaming isn’t Steve. It doesn’t even sound entirely human. _Recording?_ Maybe. Even if he doesn’t have the shield, the guy can handle himself in a fight. 

Somewhat calmed by this reasoning, Bucky checks through the equipment on his belt and in his pockets. He travels light regardless of the mission, but SHIELD had had some new tech for them to try out this time. One piece in particular sticks out in his memory. Finding the short rod, more like a microphone than a blowtorch, he flicks its switch and directs the blade-like flame in a rectangle around the doorknob.  It – surprisingly – works. _They need to ship more of these out_ , he thinks mutely before pushing the door in.

As soon as the first hole had appeared in the metal, the screaming had become more apparent, as if reacting to the building’s injury. As he opens the door completely, he’s hit by the full blast of it. Screams, metallic shrieks, howls, thumping drums – all at once, they’re blaring out around him in a manner that would be uncomfortable even without any enhancements. With his diluted serum, the sound’s like a wall crashing thirty bricks at a time into his skull. He doesn’t want to think about what it’s doing to Steve. 

He doesn’t really get a choice, though. Three steps in, he spots a taut ball of navy curled up against the wall. Biting down on the litany of curses edging towards his lips, Bucky stalks straight over and crouches down beside the rigor mortis captain. It takes a minute to wiggle his hand in between Steve’s head and wrist but he slowly manages to squeeze between. He presses his thumb firmly into the wire-tight tendons leading up to the base of Steve’s thumb, keeping a steady pressure right on his pressure point.

“Hey, Steve,” he breathes, voice low and lullaby-even. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay. You’re right here.” 

Taking a breath, he fights to focus on Steve, on his overheated skin, and rapid pulse, rather than the noise still inundating them. He’s seen sensory overload once or twice, but it’s not something they’ve ever been trained on. Even the mandatory therapy sessions he attended immediately after returning only stuck with him so well; when he decides to, Bucky has a wonderful lack of retention.

“Steve, listen to me,” he continues. “I’m right here with you. Can you feel me? I’m with you, man. C’mon, Steve, come back to me.”

Steve shifts a little, the pressure between his wrist and cheek lightening ever-so-slightly. Bucky shifts his thumb slightly to press a gentle, steady circle into Steve’s wrist and keeps murmuring inanities in a low voice. It seems to take a century for each subtle step of improvement, but, slowly, slowly, he’s blinking owlish blue eyes at Bucky, surprise clear in his otherwise distant expression.

“Bucky?” he asks blankly. “You came.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. "Think you can stand?”

Steve nods slowly, a little uncertain and still in obvious pain, and Bucky braces himself as he helps the bigger man to his feet. Steve’s not too much taller than him, just a few inches, but he’s about as dense as lead, and only Bucky’s wide stance prevents him from swaying as Steve slumps against him. 

“C’mon,” he urges gently, “grab your shield and let’s go.” 

They nearly topple then and there, with Steve lurching to the side to scoop up his shield, but he seems to sense that Bucky can’t hold all his weight and rights himself a little unsteadily. Even outside of the room and nearly to the winding stairs, Steve’s face is still screwed up in pain, and Bucky can’t help a guilty feeling every time he glances over. Steve doesn’t show if he’s hurting – ever. Bucky’s pretty sure he’d rather get an appendectomy without anesthesia than drop the stoic façade, and seeing that pain so clearly now feels like he’s intruding on something private. Like creeping in while Steve sleeps and stealing his shield. He shoves that feeling down, though, and focuses instead on the difficulty of getting a wobbly two-hundred-forty pound man up the endless staircase before them.

They end up in an awkward sideways shuffle, Bucky’s left arm still wrapped around Steve’s back and Steve’s hand dragging on the railing. Neither speaks. Outside, the rain’s faded down to a mere drizzle, and they trudge across the wide glade to Bucky’s abandoned perch. Steve’s more or less steady on his feet, but neither of them remove their arms. Bucky forces himself not to linger on it. Overloading like that is exhausting – it’s a little remarkable that Steve’s still even standing. Once they do get to Bucky’s discarded rifle, he checks to make sure Steve’s steady before releasing him and packing up.

“Thank you,” Steve says abruptly, quietly.

Bucky glances over his shoulder at where Steve’s leaning heavily against a tree, shield leaning against his knees. He shrugs and turns back to dismantling his rifle and tucking it away. He’ll need to dry it off, but later, when they’re not in the middle of nowhere with Steve dead on his feet.

“No problem,” he replies easily. “Want to go back and see if there’s anything in English on the TV?” 

Steve huffs a soft laugh, and when Bucky stands, rifle case slung over his shoulder, there’s a funny expression on his face. Immediately, Bucky has a vision of him trying to lug Steve’s passed out body the three miles back to the car.

“You’re not going to faint, are you?” he demands.

“Nah, I’m good,” Steve replies quietly, a faint smile on his lips. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is so late: awards night, essays, yada yada. Anyway, promise I'll go through and correct the formatting tomorrow; on my phone, so it's kind of a lost cause. 
> 
>  
> 
> On a side note, any of you who are Supernatural fans need to go read "What Fun It All Would Be." (Or y'know, don't, because I feel legitimately sick to my stomach from it.)


	7. Chapter 7

         Something intangible changes after that. It’s not in their missions, which run smoother than ever, and even in their day to day interactions, Bucky would be hard-pressed to lay a finger on exactly what the difference is. By some unspoken agreement, they spend the next few evenings in and both end up dabbling in a bit of quick research on dealing with panic attacks and sensory overload. Neither end up experts, but Bucky figures every little bit helps.

          It takes a much more explicit conversation to persuade Steve to actually let him know when he’s had too much.

          “That was a torture room,” Steve protests. “That’s an extreme situation.”

          “No shit,” Bucky retorts. “But I’m your back-up, and that means I need to know when to drag your ass out.”

          Steve huffs and glares off towards the road. Beside him, Bucky rolls his eyes.

          “Look, you’re not just Captain America,” he mutters. “You’re also Steve Rogers, and he’s not invincible. He doesn’t have to be."

          Steve frowns a little, gaze on on the sidewalk.

          "I know that," he replies quietly. "I just - I'm not used to having people to rely on."

          Quieted by that, Bucky walks in silence for a bit. For as honest as he is, Steve is rarely open about his emotions or mental state, instead skating by on an unflappable geniality.

          “Well,  you've got me now," he promises, knocking his shoulder with Steve’s gently,""til the end of the line."

          Steve looks up with a small, startled smile.a small, startled smile on his lips.

          Before he can say thank you again, Bucky nods towards a noodle shop.

          “Dinner?” he asks.

          Steve closes his mouth, halfway opened to reply and shoots Bucky a wry look. He doesn’t press the issue, though.

          “Looks good to me,” he answers.

          It’s quiet inside, just a few clumps of threes and twos about the snug interior, and they find a table tucked back a little beside the ordering counter. After ordering, they settle in to wait, Bucky with his back to the wall and Steve with his to the door. For as smart and tactically inclined as Steve has proven himself to be, he’s certainly not paranoid; to sit there for a minute would leave Bucky with spiders swarming under his skin.

          “So, what are you going to do after we get stateside?” Steve queries abruptly.

          Bucky’s gaze slips from the door to him and he pauses. They’re going home just as soon as they finish up with these last few bases, according to their latest orders, but, if he’s honest, he hasn’t spent much time thinking about it. They’ve been busy.

          “Dunno’,” he shrugs. “Maybe look up my sis’ and see how she is.”

          “You’ve got a sister?” Steve asks, leaning in.

          “Yeah, Becca,” Bucky nods. “Just turned eighteen. I think.”

          Steve’s brow crumples in confusion, and Bucky opens his mouth to answer _yeah I know, big age gap_ , but Steve beats him to it.

          “You don’t keep in touch with your family?” he asks.

          Closing his mouth with a quiet click of teeth, Bucky grimaces and glances away.

          “Foster kids. No family to keep in touch with,” he explains tersely.

           Instead of backing off like most people, Steve nods thoughtfully.

           “Thought they kept most siblings together,” he remarks, and Bucky smiles self-deprecatingly.

           “Behavior problem,” he answers, gesturing to himself. “The age difference didn’t help.”

           They’re quiet for a few minutes, Bucky tense and painfully tightly wound. He hates talking about family. It’s not like he had terrible foster parents or anything like that – every family he went to wanted to do the best for him. It just didn’t really work out. He likes to think he’s come a long ways from that, but a glance at his messy apartment and broken sleep schedule tends to shoot down that illusion pretty rapidly.

           “My mom died when I was eight,” Steve declares abruptly. “Never knew my dad, and we didn’t really have any extended family.”

           He’s studying the edge of the table carefully enough to be calculating the equation of its curve, and Bucky watches one muscular shoulder start to lift before giving up and dropping down.

           “I wasn’t exactly a polite kid,” he continues with a soft laugh. “Guess I got lucky, though. Last family to take me in decided to church it out of me.”

           “Good thing they don’t see you now,” Bucky teases, relaxing a little.

           Steve glances up through his lashes and grins.

           “No kidding. Associating with the likes of you? I’d be sent straight to confession,” he shoots back.

           “Oh, yeah?” Bucky challenges.

           “Oh, yeah,” Steve grins back.

           They sit there grinning like idiots for a few moments, but then their food arrives and they tuck in. It’s a little alarming, sometimes, to realize just how much food Steve can inhale, but he has a remarkable way of making the food disappear without him actually looking like a pig. Bucky’s pretty sure he’s actually just stashing some in a pocket for later, but he hasn’t caught him yet.

           “You still go?” he asks after a few minutes. “To church?”

           Having just deposited a forkful of noodles in his mouth, Steve rolls his eyes and chews before swallowing and taking a drink.

           “Every Sunday,” he affirms before pausing. “Well, when I’m not on a mission. Why?”

           Bucky shrugs, twisting the last of his noodles around his fork.

           “I dunno’,” he admits. “Just sometimes seems hard to listen through a sermon nowadays.”

           A frown creases Steve’s brow again, and he cants his head just slightly to the side.

           “You’re an atheist?” he asks.

           “Nah,” Bucky scrunches his nose slightly. “I believe there’s somebody up there, just not that he really gives a damn about any of us.”

           “Oh,” Steve manages eloquently.

           “Anyway,” Bucky declares – he doesn’t want to get into a theological debate, not right now – “what are you doing once you get back?”

           Steve hesitates, toying with the remainder of his own meal. Finally, he shrugs and lays down his fork to look up at Bucky with a closed-lip smile that doesn’t even approach his eyes.

           “Whatever SHIELD wants me to, I guess,” he answers with false cheer.

           “What, no pretty dame waiting for you back home?” Bucky teases.

           “Dame?” Steve echoes, incredulous.

           “Oh, shut it, punk,” Bucky retorts.

           Shaking his head slightly, Steve rises to throw away his trash, and they head out into the night. A brisk, damp breeze is blowing, and Bucky hunches down into his jacket and inches surreptitiously closer to Steve. Heat radiates off the man like a furnace.

           “Anyway, you never answered the question,” he prompts as they start back to the hotel.

           “Dames aren’t exactly the ones that catch my eye,” Steve finally answers quietly.

            _Oh_. **_Oh_**. Bucky blinks once before glancing at Steve from the corner of his eyes. He’s hunched down a little, broad shoulders curving inwards and face resolutely forward. An irrational surge of anger sparks in Bucky’s chest.

           “The church-family didn’t try to pray the gay away, did they?” he demands.

           “What? Oh, uh no, they never – I didn’t,” Steve pauses. “I’ve never told them. They just think I’m waiting till I find the right girl.”

           Bucky grimaces. The first time a foster parent caught him with a guy had been, well, humiliating, but not in a worse way than when another caught him with a girl. In fact, the latter had almost been worse – which may have been due to both parties being mostly naked while, in the former, they were only kissing. Regardless, after the incident with the other boy, the only change had been that his foster mom and sister spent the rest of his time with them mercilessly teasing him about any cute guys in the vicinity.

           He admits as much to Steve, who starts in surprise before gawking openly at Bucky.

           “Yeah, think I finally unlearned how to blush that year,” Bucky laughs.

           Steve shakes his head, ears tinted faintly pink.

           “I can’t imagine having them be okay with it,” he admits. “I know it’s – I don’t think it’s wrong or anything – but I just can’t imagine what they’d say. Actually, I can.”

           He grimaces a little, and Bucky’s throat tightens a little. Reaching out his good arm, he catches Steve’s shoulder.

           “Hey, if they really care about you, they’ll get over it,” he reassures. “I promise. You just have to give them the chance.”

           Steve pauses, actually catching Bucky’s gaze. Bucky doesn’t break away. Finally, Steve nods a little and ducks his head.

           “Yeah, well, guess I’m just waiting for the right person to tell ‘em,” he admits. “No sense riling them up for nothing.”

           Bucky lets it drop and doesn’t press any more, but he can’t fight the little frown that lingers as he follows Steve up the stairs to their hotel room. He knows he’s lucky, that even if he didn’t ever find a foster family that felt like home, at least he always had families who wanted him to be happy as himself. Still, it bothers him to think of Steve having to hide part of himself away all his life; he’s too good a guy for that. He doesn’t voice that, though, just lets Steve have the first shower and starts packing up his gear.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hate this chapter, so I'm sorry about it.
> 
> Anyway, hopefully the next few chapters make up for it (I don't actually remember if they do or not, so...yeah.).
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading this; it really, really helps make the writing more enjoyable when I know there are actually people out there reading it! Hope you guys have a great week!


	8. Chapter 8

        “Ghost One, you in?” Steve calls over the comm, his voice a hushed whisper.

        “Mhm,” Bucky hums, sidling through a narrow gap between pylons.

        This base is still plenty full of HYDRA operatives, which is why Bucky’s the one squeezing through the shadows and creeping along the dusty floor out of sight or hearing of any workers. Steve had looked plenty skeptical when he’d last left him, sure that it wasn’t safe for Bucky to go alone, but he’s never seen Bucky really at work. Sure, he’s a sniper, and that’s really his strongest suit, but there’s a reason his call sign’s a phantom.

        His footsteps are silent, the faintest hush of dirt shifting beneath the treads of his boots only audible to birds and bugs – neither of which seem to be present here. His rifle’s secured firmly to his back, in case it comes in handy, but his beretta is much more likely to see any use. Even with a silencer, his rifle’s a lot more likely to cause some concern; his pistol, on the other hand, will pop someone off close enough he can tuck their body away before anyone even notices they’ve gone missing.

        When he slinks up behind a guard in full gear, they don’t even get a chance to turn to see what that whisper was: a bullet to the base of their skull, barely visible under the edge of their helmet, knocks them down and he drags them back into the darkness before they slump more than a little. They’re a little taller than him and a little slighter, but all he needs is their jacket and helmet. Both fit convincingly enough. He appropriates their shoulder holster, gun and all.

      The helmet’s a glossy black with a full visor filled with stats and maps, and Bucky spends a few moments accustoming himself to its workings. Then, he’s off, following the map up to Containment F. So far as he can tell, there’s only a Containment F and H, but he doesn’t question it. It’s not like HYDRA’s the most rational organization he’s ever encountered.

        For the most part, he still sticks to the shadows and unpopulated areas as much as possible; the suit’s a decent disguise from afar, but the moment someone speaks to him directly, his cover’s blown. It’s easier once he stumbles into the back of a train of fatigue-clad gooks being escorted up to Containment H. According to the map on the inside of his visor, that’s only a hallway from Containment F, and none of the guards question it when Bucky falls in with them.

        Upstairs, he slips away when none of them are looking and ducks down his hallway. No one’s there, and it’s a work of minutes to key in the code kept in the helmet’s directory. Somehow, Bucky expected it to be more difficult.

        Which is, of course, why he’s only standing in the room, mouth agape, for a moment before something solid connects with the back of the head and he crumples to the floor.

        “- _is_ you. Oh, how fortunate,” a shrill, familiar voice crows. “This is truly exceptional, Sergeant Barnes. I had never hoped we’d see you again.”

        Gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head, Bucky forces himself to breath and to focus on that voice. It isn’t Steve, clearly. Not Fury or Hill. _Who the fuck-_

        “Of course, once we heard you were working with Captain America,” the voice continues, “we were pleased to get our eyes back on you.”

         _Zola_. Stoplight red warnings flare through Bucky’s brain, his eyes snapping open without permission to lock onto the face he can’t help but pray isn’t there. Sure enough, a round, bespectacled man hovers just to his right, benevolent smile fixed firmly in place. The flares are rapidly replaced with screams.

        “Shh, shh. Everything is all right, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola coos. “We’re just patching you up now.”

        His voice has starred in far more of Bucky’s dreams than he’d ever admit – that crooning, grandfatherly tone that oozes sympathy and genially – and even with all his training, Bucky can’t stop his heart from picking up to a rabbit’s pace against his shuddery, too-fast breaths. _No no nononono. You can’t take me not again no no no this is all wrong_

        There’s an emptiness to his left that he hasn’t felt since the last time he was strapped down to a metal table with Zola hovering over him, and he forces himself not to look over, to check. He already knows the prosthetic’s gone, knows he’s one-handed and defenseless. He’s not on a table this time, instead strapped into some sort of chair, but the helplessness remains: his goosebump-littered chest is bare to the chilly warehouse air, uncovered feet cold against the cement floor, earpiece long gone.

        He’s alone.

         _Steve_ , his mind immediately protests in concern. If they knew about this plan, did HYDRA manage to grab Steve, too? He’s strong as hell, alright, but even he can be overpowered.

        “It seems quite out of character for the good Captain to leave you on your own, Sergeant,” Zola’s continuing, and some knot in Bucky’s chest loosens in relief. “Did you two have a falling-out?”

        Steve’s safe. _Thank fuck._ It’s not exactly the most respectful thought he’s ever sent heavenward, but it’s hardly the worst. Forcing his breaths to even out, Bucky settles back against the chair and closes his eyes to start repeating his serial number and name. If nothing else, they’ll distract him until Steve shows up. _3-2-5-5-7. Sergeant James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan Barnes. 3-2-5-5-7. Sergeant…_

        “No, no, Sergeant,” Zola chides. “Not this time.”

        Something sharp and searing bites into Bucky’s shoulder, and he gasps out in the middle of his name, eyes springing open. Zola’s holding the same slim tool Bucky used to get into the torture room nearly two weeks ago, its flame cutting out as he releases the button.

        “It is interesting what your SHIELD comes up with, yes?” Zola hums peaceably, studying the tool idly. “Most ingenious and yet bizarre.”

        Bucky wants to retort something snappy, but before he’s gotten a noise out, the little torch is burning into his shoulder again. He swallows down the yelp that threatens to escape, taking with it any rejoinder and clenches his teeth against any other escapee. Zola smiles one of his gentle, inane little smiles.

        “Sir, the generators are ready,” a tech announces, gaze studiously dipped.

        “Excellent,” Zola purrs. “Let the procedure begin.”

        Before Bucky can manage half a question, the chair starts tilting backwards, flattening out like an overstretched recliner. Flat paddles are coming down to plant firmly on his chest. Before any training can kick in, his remaining fingers are scrabbling against the slick vinyl seat, chest heaving in rapid, jerky breaths. They’re too fast, too shallow, overlapping gasps that get stuck on top of each other in the back of his throat and he knows it isn’t helping - knows he's not getting enough air to his brain - can't think like this - can't plan - can’t -

        He blacks out before the metal casing closes around his head.

        When he comes to, he thinks for a few delirious moments that he’s died and gone to hell. He’s never worried too much about the fate of his eternal soul, but he has been a little lax about that whole "thou shalt not kill" idea, and anyway,  this sure feels like hellfire. His skin is hot as a stovetop, searing red along his nerves, and every breath drags hot coals up his lungs and throat.

        "Vitals are stable, sir, " a distant voice announces.

        "Excellent. Assay systems?” another queries.

        “Online. Antigens inactive - everything looks good,” the first answers.

        “Good. Sergeant Barnes,” the second voice entreats, “it’s time for you to wake up.”

        He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to acknowledge that this is real, his nightmares walking, but when that sharp little jolt bites into his chest, just to the right of the juncture of his neck and shoulders, his eyes jump open to the rapid quickening of his breath. Zola’s still standing beside him, but he somehow seems smaller, as if he’s diminished in the hours Bucky’s been asleep.

        “Good morning, Sergeant,” he croons. “How do you feel?”

        “Fuck off, asshole,” Bucky spits.

        Zola frowns slightly, nearly nonexistent lips depressing in a sideways parenthese.

        “Now, Sergeant, it is imperative that you answer my questions accurately,” he chides. “It is for your own good.”

        For a moment, Bucky debates either spitting in the creep’s face or just stonewalling him, but that damn rod is back, pressed hard into the flesh of his stomach. It’s like a live wire in water, taking that agonizing burn throughout his body and amping it into a lightning bolt. He finally bites out a harsh, desperate, ‘fine,’ and it stops.

        “Now, how do you feel?” Zola prompts again, shock-rod held absently in one hand.

        “Fucking dandy,” Bucky snaps.

        “Perhaps we will move onto the next procedure,” Zola hums softly, “It may persuade you to be a bit more cooperative.”

        He flinches as the rod slides down into a more useful hold in Zola’s hand, and his teeth grind together. He’s no coward; he’s not about to give them anything. That doesn’t stop him from not really wanting to die. Call it survival instincts or hindbrain - it’s hard to fully commit to letting himself die.        

        The chair doesn’t shift this time; instead, he stays flat on his back as metal paddles come down to clamp firmly around the sides of his head. Each one is perhaps the size of his hand, cupped, and they curve around from his ears to his forehead, insistent but not painful. His breaths are still rushing in and out in too-quick pants, and his whole body seizes up as an unseen tech jabs a needle into the side of his neck. He can’t see them, can only feel the pinch of a needle through skin - and then nothing.

        His lungs are still working - he knows because he’s hyperventilating in rapid gasps that sound ragged and raw - but he can’t feel them. Can’t feel his feet, his skin - anything past that needle point on his neck. Even if he had the prosthetic, he knows he couldn’t use it. Fear spreads through him like a neurotoxin, the phantom sensation of bars closing around a chest he can’t even feel.

        For the first time in twenty-odd years, he wants to cry.

        “Begin,” Zola orders mildly.

        The world goes white.

        It’s - it’s lightning. Or maybe God’s descent to mete out his final judgment. It’s hard to tell once the white starts burning through Bucky’s retinas, searing out his screams, and leaping from electron to electron in his bones. After the initial surge, it’s cold, frigid. _Neural overload,_ his mind supplies blankly, but he doesn’t know where that came from or what it means.  All he can tell is that he has reached absolute zero, that fantastical number he scoffed at in high school. It settles into his skin, sinking through his flesh, and the lightning freezes within him, atoms stopped in flight.

        And then, it’s gone.

        He’s limp, a sagging puppet with cut strings, in a strange chair, and - and, _fuck. Zola?_ His fingers - _only five? where’s my_ \- clench and his teeth grit. _How did he-? Steve? Where’s Steve?_ He can recall a brief conversation on a hill, ended by him swinging his rifle onto his back and throwing off a cocky salute - and then. And then he’s here. _Shit. Shit._ There’s got to be hours missing, at the least. How? His head isn’t aching like he smacked it against a concrete floor or wall, so no concussion. There’s just a buzzing burn radiating throughout his body, humming between his bones and ligaments like a superheated vibration.

        “What is your name?” Zola queries like a test proctor.

        He doesn’t sound as if he doesn’t know Bucky, more like he’s checking if _Bucky_ knows, and this freezes him up more than anything.

        A strange little rod with pincer-like prongs on one end is jabbed straight into Bucky’s chest, and he gasps out in shock.

        “What is your name?” Zola repeats.

        “Fuck off,” Bucky snaps.

        He won’t play into this game. He’s beaten it once before; he can do it again. Zola still flattens his lips a little, the same he used to when Bucky would sing Journey till his voice went hoarse just to fuck with the creeps as they poked and prodded and interrogated him.

        “How did you arrive here?” Zola asks, moving on.

        “Through the front door, asshole,” Bucky lies.

        It doesn’t matter how terrified he is, he’s not about to tell that to Zola. This time, though, it seems like the right answer. Zola studies him for a few more minutes through his watery, myopic gaze, and then he turns to address the techs Bucky can now see beyond him.

        “Increase the voltage,” he orders.

        Suddenly, metal clamps are closing around his head and he’s screaming -  he’s terrified - he’s fucking terrified - and he can’t feel - he can’t - he -

         _He can’t feel his arm. Can’t feel anything really._ Did I fall? _he wants to ask._ Did I jump without a parachute? _It sounds like something he’d do. Something idiotic. He lets his eyes close, because Natasha looks terrified, and that’s not something he wants to focus on, not for too long anyway._

_“Don’t you dare do this to me, Barnes! Don’t you dare,” she’s hissing, her voice little more than a wrecked whisper._

 “Something’s wrong, sir, his heart - ”

_“S’okay,” he manages, lifting his hand to clap her shoulder. It doesn’t seem to respond, and he frowns a little. “Where’s m’arm?”_

_There’s something like a sob above him, but that can’t be possible. Natasha doesn’t sob - doesn’t even cry. He manages to crack his eyes open a little, and she is crying. Her elbows are locked, though he can’t really tell what she’s pressing on; it seems an impossible feat to move his head to the side to see. Her gaze is focused on it, whatever it is, and he’s a little disconcerted to see blood on her hands._ Well, fuck.

_“Hey,” he breathes, “my eyes are up here.”_

      _"Just_ \- stabilizing, sir - _up, Barnes_ \- all systems steady."

        There are men surrounding him, and he doesn't know where Steve is. His prosthetic’s gone,  right arm strapped to a strange chair arm, and back sticking to the seat with sweat. He was talking to Steve, wasn't he? Walking down the street after dinner - _must've been a tac team_ \- but...he was in jeans and sneakers. How'd he get into his combat pants? _How did-? 3-2-5-5-7.  Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.  3-2-5-5-7..._ It doesn’t help him remember anything, but his breathing gradually evens out enough for him to focus on the rest of the room.

        "-understand,  sir. Rogers is _breaking down the door_. We can't afford to transport the subject," a tech is hissing to Zola.

        "I have not spent this much time on the Sergeant for it to be thrown away," Zola snaps back. "Stop the damn Captain.  It’s only one man!"

        It's perhaps the first time Bucky’s seen him genuinely upset; even when SHIELD had brought the bunker raining down on their heads, it had merely been a slight misfortune to Zola, no big deal. Now, though, his waxy skin is turning a brilliant puce, and sweat is beading up by his hairline. Bucky feels a twitch of vindictive pleasure.

        “Sir, we can’t,” the tech is backed up by some sort of security now, a glossy black visor flipped back to show a young face and worried dark eyes. “The Commander is ordering you abandon the project now. We have orders to escort you by force if you refuse.”

        The guard hardly looks old enough to be on a detail like this, but Bucky can’t really remember the guards who orbited the lab back in Syria. Maybe Zola likes them young.

        “Fine,” Zola spits out, fit to burst from temper. “Get the notes together. You, collect what samples will fit.”

        He turns to face Bucky, owlish eyes surprisingly dark with anger.

        “This is not over, Sergeant Barnes,” he hisses. “I will not lose you a third time.”

        Then he’s gone in a flurry of assistants and guards, lights shut off after them, and Bucky’s left strapped to a rapidly cooling chair with only the buzz of pain and echo of his serial number keeping him from panicking. He can’t do anything, he knows, except wait for Steve to find him. It’s not a particularly reassuring thought. Especially not when he starts trying to figure out how long he’s even been down here and can come up with nothing blinding white.

        It’s hours, maybe, when the door bangs open, and Bucky barely blinks, just keeps repeating his quiet mantra in the hopes that whatever he’s hallucinating will go away soon.

        “Bucky? Bucky!”

         _That...sounds like Steve._ He blinks, pauses in his muttering to glance up at the vaguely-outlined figure before him, and, well, the shape looks right.

        “Steve?” he still asks.

        “Oh god, Bucky,” Steve whispers. “Jesus. How-?”

        The strap keeping Bucky’s wrist down is ripped off, the more mechanical bits of the chair broken. He’s not sure he really needs a crutch when Steve first loops his arm under Bucky’s, but as they stand, he decides maybe it’s not a bad idea. His legs can’t seem to get the message to flex, instead scrabbling uselessly against the floor.

        “I’m so sorry, Bucky,” Steve’s offering. “I’m so sorry. I never should’ve let you go in. I should’ve come with you. This is all my fa-”

        “Steve,” Bucky finally interrupts, finally getting his legs to support him, “shut up.”

        Steve recoils a little in surprise, and Bucky mentally adds ‘apologize to Steve’ to his checklist for once they’re out of a HYDRA-controlled lab’s basement. It’s a bit further down the list than taking a shower and finding his baggiest hoodie to curl up in.

        “Alright, jerk,” Steve replies, though, just a beat late, and Bucky snorts in surprise before glancing over.

        “Punk. Got a ride out of here for us?” he asks.

        Steve nods, explains that SHIELD had recalled him as soon as they’d realized that Bucky wasn’t coming out. He apologizes about fifty times more for not just heading straight in, and Bucky waves each one away. _A week._ He’s missing a week. He doesn’t, strictly speaking, need Steve’s help walking anymore, but he’s grateful for the support all the same.

        They make it outside through a thoroughly demolished building, meet the quinjet and pile in, and Bucky spends the ride leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder an feigning sleep. _Remember, remember, remember._ He can remember nearly every second of his last time with Zola in crisp, high-def detail. _How can they possibly have erased a week?_

        He shivers and then forces himself not to freeze when he feels Steve’s arm shift to wrap around his shoulders, settling lightly on his empty shoulder. The skin there has little to no feeling but every battered nerve ending lights up gold at the touch. Steve thinks he’s asleep. He has to. And if he does...well, he won’t say anything about the way Bucky melts into the touch, right side pressed into the warmth of Steve’s overlarge body.

        At some point, he does actually fall asleep - deep and dreamless like he can’t remember having for some time - and Steve removes his arm to gently shake him awake.

        “Hey, hey, Bucky,” he greets, voice low and gentle. “We’re here.”

        Blinking away the lingering edge of drowsiness, Bucky nods and lets Steve pull him to his feet before blinking a few times and straightening. His neck’s a little sore from his awkward sleeping position, and by the way his skin feels tacky and stiff under a spare SHIELD t-shirt, he’s pretty sure that a week in Zola’s clutches means a week without any sort of bathing.

        “Wanna’ go wash up?” Steve suggests, evidently reading his mind - or, maybe, taking a glance at Bucky’s general state.

        “Saying I stink, punk?” Bucky challenges teasingly, following Steve out of the jet.

        “You said it,” Steve rejoins with a grin.

        There’s a worried little pucker between his eyebrows, but his smile is warm and honest, and Bucky feels himself relax a little at the sight of it.

        “Sergeant Barnes?” one of the quinjet’s crew has paused in the middle of walking through the jet. “Director Fury wants to see you immediately.”

        Immediately, the little pucker turns into a full-on scowl as Steve turns to face the crew member. His hackles are up like a lion in front of a challenger, and the woman shrinks back a little, dwarfed by his frame. Before he can get a word out though, Bucky shakes his head and gestures out.

        “No problem,” he calls over his shoulder, tugging on Steve’s wrist when the other man doesn’t move.

        “It is too a problem,” Steve hisses once they’re out of earshot of the crew. “You’ve been in HYDRA’s hands for a week. You need rest and food - not an interrogation.”

        Despite himself, Bucky smiles a little at the aggressive concern in Steve’s voice, but it’s thin.

        “Sorry, Cap,” he answers, “but fresh intel’s the best intel.”

        He doesn’t add that he has no intel, that no matter how many years of service he’s got, he completely botched this mission and doesn’t know how. Fury’ll find out soon enough.

        Steve certainly doesn’t look happy about that response, but he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he walks Bucky to Fury’s office in silence, and when the door closes, it’s to a scowl deep as the Grand Canyon on his face.

        “Sergeant,” Fury greets, flat as ever.

        “Director,” Bucky sighs back, dropping into the leather chair in front of Fury.

        It’s a quick debriefing, highlighted mainly by Fury’s disbelief when Bucky says they kept him unconscious for most of it. If pressed, he’ll always have plausible deniability: he has no clue what they did to him. He might have been sleeping.

        “We’re putting you on leave for now,” Fury finally declares, face pinched in what looks like disgust. “Until Stark’s got a new arm for you, you’re out of the field.”

        Bucky starts to object only to cut himself off. _What’d you expect?_ he asks himself. _A one-armed sniper’s useless._ It’s the same thought that cycled incessantly through his mind last time he ended up on this side of Fury’s desk with a quarter of his limbs missing. He nods tersely, is dismissed, and trudges out the door.

        Steve looks up sharply, and Bucky freezes halfway through the door. It’s been at least forty-five minutes, but Steve looks like he hasn’t moved from the spot he last occupied as Bucky closed the Director’s doors behind him.

        “Hey,” Steve greets after a long silence and uncertain swallow.

        Bucky nods in acknowledgment and turns down the hallway towards the locker rooms. Steve falls into step with him, and they’re silent most the way down the corridor. Then -

        “I was thinking,” Steve starts, “that - uh - that roadtrip to see your sister. I could - if you want - y’know, another driver - I could come. If - if you wanted.”

        Stopping dead in his tracks, Bucky turns to face a thoroughly flushed Steve in confusion. His offer seems genuine, even if his gaze is hovering just a few inches to the right of Bucky’s eyes.

        “If this is about the arm...” Bucky starts, his voice bordering on a growl.

        Steve jumps and finally focuses on Bucky.

        “What? No! I just - I mean, I’m not going to be back out there till you are, and I thought - I mean, you’d said you wanted to see her, and it uh it couldn’t hurt to have an extra driver - or I mean, that’s what Mary always says - and I - I just thought I’d offer. You don’t have to-” he stammers.

        “I was planning on flying,” Bucky interrupts flatly.

        “Oh,” Steve breathes, shoulders slumping. “Oh, okay. Yeah, that makes sen-”

        “But I wouldn’t mind the company,” Bucky continues, “if you want.”

        It’s like someone offered him free use of a penthouse, the way Steve’s whole body shifts into a radiant pleasure. The sun’s glowing soft around his small smile, into little rays that crinkle around the corners of his eyes, and all Bucky can think is, _oh_ shit _._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ZOLA! 
> 
> ...that's all I've got. We're onto 31k now, fyi 
> 
> As always, your comments and kudos keep me alive when I'm staring at a blank document at three in the morning. Much love~


	9. Chapter 9

       Traveling casually with Steve turns out to be just as easy as traveling with him for work. They both show up with a half-packed backpack and a baseball cap pulled low over their foreheads; Steve’s Dodgers one earns him a heavily offended glare from Bucky, and Bucky’s Yankees gets an equally disapproving one from Steve. Steve walks through the metal detector no problem, and then has to wait while Bucky explains the metal socket in his shoulder to the TSA officer. She’s polite but seems a little confused by the lack of a prosthetic to fill the metallic bowl in his side.

       They’ve got an hour till boarding, and Steve spends it frowning at the sudoku book he brought while Bucky shoots a text to Becca letting her know he’s going to be in the neighborhood with a friend.

        _sounds good. bring coffee. :)_

       He smiles faintly and rolls his eyes but shoots back the obligatory _yes ma’am_ before peeking over Steve’s shoulder. As expected, the puzzle’s been abandoned with only about five numbers filled in, and instead, the page is littered with quick micro-sketches of people around them.

       “Y’ever do full pieces?” Bucky asks, curious.

       He’s watched Steve doodle over files, reports, even edges of maps, throughout their brief tour of Europe, but he has yet to see a really finished piece. Steve jerks in surprise, glaring half-heartedly over at Bucky before dropping his gaze to the doodles around the nine-by-nine grid.

       “Nah, not really,” he admits. “I used to, in high school, but I haven’t really had time since.”

       “Sounds like you need more time off,” Bucky remarks, settling back into his seat and reaching down to grab his book from his bag.

       It’s a skinny little thing he picked up the last time he was in an actual airport that’s mostly nonsense - all about children and magic and evil creatures worming their way into good souls. Steve glances over, eyes the deep blue cover curiously, and goes back to pretending to do sudoku.

       When they’re called for boarding, they shuffle up to the front of the line, hand over their boarding passes and get herded down the ramp to the plane itself. It’s always a little unnerving to enter a plane through a narrow doorway after the broad ramps of quinjets, and even Steve casts a wary glance at the curved portal as they pass through. Their seats are 17 A and B, and it takes a minute to squeeze down the aisle between the other passengers cramming their suitcases and bags up overhead. One man in particular is taking up the aisle just two seats ahead of their own seats, trying to force a bulging case into the overhead.

       “Y’want the window?” Bucky offers while they wait, leaning into a seat to let an attendant pass.

       “Sure,” Steve agrees, eyeing Bucky for a moment before turning back to watch as the man hands over his suitcase to the attendant and opens up the aisle again.

       Their bags are easy enough to toss into the compartment. Squeezing through the row to their seats? Not so much. Next to Rogers, Bucky is hardly imposing, but airline seats were designed for five year olds or the slender woman who sits down next to Bucky, curls up under a bright blue blanket that matches her hijab, and promptly falls asleep. Steve and Bucky, on the other hand, awkwardly bend and twist their legs to cram them into the meager legroom and are saved any armrest dilemna only through Bucky’s lack of an arm. Their legs and shoulders still bump and jostle each other a little until they settle in.

       “Sure know how to make a flight comfortable,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

       Steve laughs quietly, just a hush of breath. An attendant comes by to inform them of the responsibilities of sitting in an exit row, ascertain they are willing to undertake them, and eye Bucky’s arm a little skeptically when they both agree. He doesn’t push, though, and they strap in and pull out their respective books while the rest of the passengers settle in.

       Despite being a little over six hours long, the flight is uneventful. Steve drops the sudoku book to his lap in favor of gazing out the window, and Bucky only lets himself watch for a few moments before tilting his head back against the vinyl headrest and closes his eyes. _It’s just a crush_ , he chides himself, _and hardly an original one_. Captain America’s the fodder for more than a million teenagers’ more intimate fantasies; he doesn’t need to become Bucky’s. That silent reprimand doesn’t do much, though, when Steve gently eases Bucky’s book out from under his hand and tucks it away before accepting a blanket from a passing attendant and draping it over him.

       Bucky never quite falls asleep - it’s too small a space with too many people - but he does doze fitfully, waking each time someone walks past or moves too much in one of the surrounding seats. Eventually, an hour or so out, he gives up and sits up fully.  Steve’s out, head against the window and broad shoulders contorted awkwardly, and Bucky wiggles out of the blanket to cover Steve instead. The woman beside him looks over with a faint smile before turning to him.

       "How long have you been together?" she asks, voice pitched low presumably so as to avoid waking Steve.

       "What - oh,  we're not," Bucky corrects. "We're just-"

       He hesitates, trying to classify their relationship. "Friends" is too shallow for people who drag each other out of hell without a thought and rings of denial anyway.  "Colleagues" don't accompany each other out to California to visit their little sister. Eventually,  he just shrugs his good shoulder.

       "We're not dating," he concludes.

       "Oh, sorry," the woman apologizes,  though she looks more skeptical than apologetic. "So, why are you going to California?"

       "My sister's at Berkeley," he explains.  "You?"

       "My brother's getting married," she answers with a smile.

       Bucky smiles at her obvious delight and congratulates her. The proud sister laughs that it's taken him long enough, and they slide easily enough into a genial conversation on the woes of siblinghood. Despite having spent most his life communicating with his biological sister via letters either physical or digital,  Bucky had enough foster siblings to know the complexities of those relationships intimately. By the time Steve wakes, they are coasting into the city, and Bucky and Olivia have moved on from siblings to vacation spots.

       "I haven't been on one in a while," Bucky admits,  reaching to rub the back of his neck with his missing hand.

       "Oh. Military?" Olivia guesses.

       "What gave it away?" Bucky replies drily.

       Olivia smiles, lips twitching down a little at the corners.

       "Some things never seem to go away," she answers.

      _Ain't that the truth_ , Bucky wants to laugh, but there’s a slightly hysterical edge to it that makes him bite down on it and offer a closed-lip smile instead.

       "Sounds like you've got some experience," he comments.

       "My wife served," she explains. "After enough time, you start to realize that checking each of the exits every five minutes isn’t just an idiosyncrasy."

       Bucky grimaces and catches Steve studiously examining the safety brochure from the seat pocket. He bites back a laugh and reminds himself to teach the punk how to eavesdrop later. Olivia gives him a vaguely apologetic smile and shifts topics back.

       "Anyway, if you could pick anywhere to visit, where would you go?" she asks, somehow managing to shift her attention so it rests on them jointly, pulling Steve in as well.

       Leaning back a little, Bucky looks towards Steve to prompt him. He hesitates, holding Bucky's gaze as if there’s a secret in it, before turning to Olivia.

       "Australia," he answers. "I used to have this obsession with koala bears."

       Bucky chokes on his laughter and ducks his head into his hand. He's willing to bet his remaining arm that Steve’s laughing from the way his broad hand gently pats Bucky's back like he's having a coughing fit.

       "Koalas?" Olivia echoes,  laughter in her voice.

       "Oh, yeah," Steve affirms. "I had a whole plan to kidnap one from the zoo and bring it home when I was was in elementary. Didn't quite pan out. "

       Olivia laughs, and the pilot's voice comes on to announce their arrival. The three of them exchange pleasant goodbyes, and then Steve and Bucky are headed down the length of the airport to the Hertz rental stall. It’s dark out already, the sky a rich indigo, but city lights glitter like a jeweler's display case and reflect up to block block out the competition of the stars.

       "You never answered," Steve remarks,  knocking Bucky’s empty shoulder with his right.

       Bucky quirks an eyebrow questioningly.  He might have zoned out for a few minutes, but he’s pretty sure Steve didn't ask a question.

       "Where you'd like to go if you could pick," Steve clarifies.

       “Oh," Bucky stalls.

       He hums, tapping his fingers against his bag's strap, and tries to think if any place he’s dying to visit. None really jump out: over the past seven years, he's seen a lot of the world. In truth,  even with most a year for sick leave,  he’s probably spent more time out of the country than in. Most of that, of course, was at night, and any landmarks were only spotted through a scope, but the fact remains.

       "Yellowstone," he finally decides.

       "Yeah?" Steve asks, and Bucky shrugs, hitching his bag up a little.

       "Yeah," he affirms. "It's like the New Zealand of America."

       At that,  Steve laughs a little and finally pulls his gaze to the front. His expression is thoughtful, and Bucky has the vaguest premonition that he’s about to suggest they drive back to New York via Wyoming.  Before he can, though, they reach the stall and check out the little white sedan Bucky rented. In go their bags, and Bucky lets Steve take the wheel. He can drive one-handed,  but the legality's a little iffy. Regardless,  it gives him a chance to sift through his texts and emails - and find five from restricted numbers.

_What happened?_

_Where are you?_

_Fury better not have locked you in a lab again._

_Hey, man, might want to call Tasha._

_James Buchanan Barnes,  I will drag your ass out of medical if you don't answer._

_Barnes, call her now._

       Grimacing,  Bucky apologizes preemptively to Steve and dials the apartment number. It's just just a cell phone with a plan they pay for jointly, but if either is there, they are guaranteed to answer.  Two rings later, Natasha does.

       "Hey, Nat," Bucky greets.

       "James," she answers,  voice chilly and hard of a sudden. "Where are you?"

       Sighing, Bucky silently regrets every time he's been thankful for an overprotective Russian.  He had sent her an email explaining everything,  but honestly,  she changes contact information more often than he changes shirts.

       "On the way to Berkeley, " he explains.  "Must've sent that email to the wrong address."

       "Visiting Becca?" she surmises, her voice relaxing.

       "Yeah," Bucky confirms. "She's got fall break, so."

       He can hear a faint huff like couch cushion under Natasha’s weight.

       "I'll send you my new email," she says. "Have fun out there."

       "Yeah,  you too," he answers and they hang up.

       Waiting a moment for a moment for his phone to come back to life, he taps the end call button and locks it.

       "Swear, she worries like a new mom," he gripes.

       She didn't used to, he knows, and he’s not naïve enough not to know when and why the hovering started. Thinking too long on it always leaves guilt gnawing hungrily at his breastbone, and he pushes it away brusquely.

       "Anyway," he starts before pausing to check if he just saw that sign right, "do you have any idea where you're going?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, confession time: I know absolutely nothing about prosthetics and am bullshitting my way through this like Loki with the dwarves - hopefully with fewer scarring side-effects. The TSA website was remarkably unhelpful. Like, incredibly unhelpful.
> 
> The book Bucky's reading is "The Ocean At the End of the Lane" by Neil Gaiman. It's weird and lovely and a really enjoyable read.
> 
> I'm just going to start the apologies regarding Steve/Bucky's relationship in the coming chapters now and continue through until Chapter Fifteen. And then I'll start apologizing about other things. 
> 
> ANYWAY, thanks again for all the support! It's really amazing to log on and see all the kudos, bookmarks, and comments you guys leave; definitely helps on getting the daily 1666 done, too!


	10. Chapter 10

      Once they get turned around and headed towards Berkeley instead of Brisbane,  it's a quiet trip. There's some classic rock station playing, and, through it, Bucky discovers Steve has the cultural awareness of a hermit - if that.

      "Conservative Christians," he reminds patiently.

      "But-" Bucky objects.

      "Didn't celebrate Halloween, " Steve adds.

      "Your _childhood_ ," Bucky laments and Steve laughs.

      "You and Tony both," he chuckles, shaking his head slightly.

      "Have you ever trick-or-treated?" Bucky presses.

      "Nope," Steve replies cheerily, popping the 'p'.

      "Jesus," Bucky breathes. "Hand out candy?"

      Steve shakes his head.

      "One year, our youth group hosted a prayer meeting for the souls of the children out celebrating the devil," he offers, laughter in his voice.

      Bucky stares at him for a minute before settling back in his seat.

      "Did you believe any of it?" he asks.

      "Not really," Steve admits with a shrug, "but my family did, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. It's not like I would've been able to do much even if they'd been more lenient."

       _Right_. Because that skinny, scowling kid in the file had had a list of health problems longer than he was tall.

      "What about you?" Steve asks abruptly, glancing over. "You the Ghost of Main Street every year?"

      "Yeah, more like the Terror," Buckyscoffs. "I think I spent more November firsts in the police station than a convict."

      Steve glances over, eyebrows quirked and a faint smile on his lips.

      "You weren't kidding about behavior problem, huh?" he comments.

      Scootching down a little in his seat, Bucky shoves his hand in his hoodie's pocket before it can start tapping again.

      "There's a reason I joined the army," he answers, "and it wasn't patriotism."

      There's an awkward pause that Bucky spends regretting his words. It’s stupid to get upset over his childhood, but any mention of it always stirs up an itching ache in his chest that echoes with his father’s voice and mother’s pleas. _‘Some things never seem to go away.’ Yeah, right._

      “What did you want to do?” Steve asks, breaking into Bucky’s sullen reverie.

      And that’s the kicker. Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, shifting up to a slightly more upright position.

      “No clue,” he admits. “You?”

      In the intermittent lighting of the passing street lights, Steve’s face looks abruptly warm, and he takes a bit to answer.

      “What is it, stripper?” Bucky teases.

      A choked sound squeezes out of Steve’s throat, and he shoots Bucky a look that’s hard to decipher in the dark car but is likely scandalized or disapproving.

      “Artist,” he corrects before releasing a sigh. “I wasn’t any good or anything, so it was a pipe dream. But, yeah.”

      Without thinking, Bucky reaches across and smacks Steve in the shoulder. It’s not hard, especially compared to the boulder that is Steve’s bicep, but it’s enough for Steve to jerk around towards him.

      “Stop that,” Bucky chides. “I’ve seen you draw - maybe not any big thing, but enough. You don’t have to be modest.”

      “I wasn’t - you’ve barely seen anything I’ve drawn!” Steve protests, eyes back on the road.

      Bucky snorts and turns his gaze back to the front.

      “Fine, prove me wrong,” he challenges, fighting a grin.

      “You’re impossible,” Steve mutters.

      The grin wins.

      By the time they’ve pulled into the little La Quinta, the station’s switched to a pop one that has some kid crooning about his sweetheart, and they’ve circled around back to Halloween. This time, though, it’s on the upcoming one, not those of their childhoods.

      “Tony always throws a huge party, apparently,” Steve explains, cruising slowly through the first row of the parking lot.

      “You don’t sound terribly excited about that,” Bucky remarks.

      Steve shrugs slightly.

      “I’m not a huge fan of crowds,” he admits, “and I always feel out of place in these fancy shindigs.”

      “You should hand out candy with us, then,” Bucky suggests before pointing out an empty parking place. “There’s a spot. I mean, we don’t do anything big or anything, but it’s pretty fun.”

      Steve pulls in and kills the engine. They listen as it ticks down, and Steve studies the steering wheel for a moment before turning to Bucky.

      “Thank you,” he answers, voice a little low and a lot sincere.

      Lifting his shoulder loosely, Bucky reaches down to detach his seatbelt.

      “No problem,” he answers. “It’s just Halloween.”

      “No, I-” Steve reaches out suddenly, hand three-quarters of the way to Bucky’s wrist before he seems to catch himself and waffle before slowly lowering it the rest of the way. “Thank you for just accepting me. Most people kinda’ forget that there’s a guy behind the shield and uniform.”

      His voice is self-deprecating and guilty with none of the resentment Bucky would’ve expected from that kind of statement; instead, it somehow sounds like it’s Steve’s fault.

      “Well, of course,” Bucky answers, voice carefully dry before he flicks a grin Steve’s way, “ _they_ don’t know about your koala bear fetish.”

      He’s out the door and free before Steve can make more than a squawk of protest, but he’s grinning when Steve comes around to the trunk to grab his bag and knocks Bucky’s shoulder with his own.

      He wants to say: _It’s only what you deserve for treating me like a person, not a casualty. Thank you for not just being Captain America. You’re the only one who acts like I’m not just a ghost of who I was._ But the words are missing and the ones that are left twist and tie themselves in knots trying to work their way out of his throat. Instead, he grins and calls, “Last one in, last to shower!” and ends up sprinting in, red-faced, and doubled over laughing. The receptionist is eyeing them like delinquents, but he can’t find it in himself to care when Steve’s thousand-watt smile is beaming its sunny gaze right at him and only him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to American readers! And happy random Thursday to everyone else? 
> 
> I have finally finished writing! Yay! Still short of the whole 50k deal, so hopefully, I'll be adding in and revising this some more. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

Cold freezes up around him, white scorching his eyes. He can't hear - can't see - can't -  Something heavy presses down on his shoulder, pinning him - it's holding - he can’t scream - _Why can't he scream?_

"Bucky. Hey, Buck, c'mon. You’re safe. It’s okay, Buck, you're okay."

He bolts upright, hand shooting out for the pistol under his pillow - but Steve’s already shifted back from him, hands raised placatingly. _Fuck._ He knows his nightmares aren’t always the quietest,  but they've been fewer and farther between these past few months. _Should’ve known_ , he thinks tiredly,  because of course they'd make a dramatic reappearance.

"You here?" Steve asks carefully.

"Yeah. Shit," Bucky swears, pausing to catch his breath. "Sorry for waking you up."

Steve shrugs, still sitting with one leg folded underneath him on the side of the bed. His hair's a disaster,  the '40s combover lost in favor of hedgehog-esque bedhead, and Bucky’s torn between wanting to smooth it down for him and wanting it to stay.

"You didn’t," Steve answers and hesitates before adding,  "I didn’t have the most restful night either."

Grimacing slightly,  Bucky shakes his head.

"How the hell have we been on a mission for months and not had nightmares?" he mutters.

"You must be a good influence," Steve answers, smiling. He pauses, swallows, before asking, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Averting his gaze, Bucky shrugs and swallows.

"Not much to talk about," he admits. "I was trapped and couldn't get free. You?"

A small frown creases Steve’s forehead,  and his gaze shifts to the drab painting adorning the room's far wall.

"It was the day of the procedure," he explains haltingly. "It didn't work,  and I couldn't catch Erskine's killer. I had an asthma attack going after him."

He laughs a soft, self-deprecating huff and glances over at Bucky with a wry half-smile.

"Guess neither of us like being helpless much," he remarks.

"Probably a good thing you're a super soldier,  huh?" Bucky replies, nudging Steve’s thigh with his foot.

Steve glances away, lips tightening a little, before giving a short nod.

"Yeah," he agrees flatly.

Bucky eyes him for a moment before rolling his eyes and shifting to sit cross-legged under the comforter.

"You're a shit liar, y'know?" he comments drily. "What's wrong?"

 _Oh, please. Like you don't know,_ Bucky scoffs when Steve turns his big, surprised blue eyes towards him. Strong? Smart? _Hell, yes._ Deceitful? _Not in a million years._ As if sensing this silent exchange, Steve drops his gaze and rubs the back of his neck.

"It's just - these HYDRA cells - Fury said they were small-school,  right?" he starts, glancing over at Bucky. "But every one leads to another and another - it’s almost like a bread trail."

Chewing on the inside of his lip, Bucky opens his mouth to reply only to pause again.

"You think they're leading us on a goose chase," he surmises.

"No - well, maybe," Steve answers. "It just seems like it's all been a little too laid out for us. The only real resistance we've seen was-"

"When I got caught," Bucky finishes when Steve cuts off sharply.

He looks ill, like the memory causes him physical pain, and Bucky fends off the guilt that hits him like a knee to the gut. He still doesn’t know how he got caught, but he knows it had to have been his fault. That it still hurts Steve - well, that's inexcusable.

"Yeah," Steve agrees after a moment.

He’s turned his gaze back to Bucky,  blue eyes dark and sincere, and Bucky’s never wanted anything more than he wants to lean forward and kiss away that lingering pain.

He’s not sure who leans in first, because the next time something other than his hindbrain kicks in, his lips are pressed to Steve’s. They break apart like a hand against a hot stove, and Bucky stares at Steve. Steve, whose face is less than inches away from his. Steve, whose blue eyes are huge and shocked like he just woke up with his lips connected to Bucky’s.

“Shit,” Steve whispers.

For a moment, Bucky’s brain is too short-circuited to understand the remark. Sure, it was a chaste kiss, but it didn’t seem particularly terrible. Then, _oh yes_ , his brain reconnects with his short-term memory and the rest of his body and the conversation returns to him with the feeling of sweat cooled and dried on his skin.

“This was probably the wrong time for that, wasn’t it?” he remarks, voice as soft as Steve’s.

A small smile quirks Steve’s lips up on one side, and he releases a breath through his nose.

“Yeah,” he admits, “might not have been our best idea.”

Bucky starts to lean back, prepared for the inevitable rejection. He’d rather get out of the way than be the one caught lingering.

“But,” Steve starts before looking abruptly bashful, “maybe another time we could - try again?”

This time, Bucky doesn’t even try to fight off the grin that pulls up the corners of his lips. Sure, he’s noticed Steve doing things other mission partners would never - tucking him on the plane, traveling cross country with him, to name a few - but, well, he’s Captain America: it’s kinda’ in the job description. He’s never really hoped that, well. _This_ would happen.

“Of course,” he promises.

Steve smiles more fully this time, white teeth peeking out from under a top lip that Bucky now knows is as soft and dry as it looks. He holds Bucky’s gaze for a moment before dropping it, rubbing the back of his neck while studying the apparently captivating green floral pattern on the bedspread.

“Well, I guess I should probably go back to my bed,” he remarks.

“You going to sleep?” Bucky asks.

When Steve glances up and meets Bucky’s gaze again, it’s with a self-deprecating smile.

“Doubt it,” he admits.

“Then you might as well stay,” Bucky answers, as if it’s obvious and not making his heart flutter like a schoolboy’s. “I’m sure there’s something great on the TV at - _oh_ , four thirty am.”

Steve laughs and hesitates only a moment before accepting and sliding up to the spot Bucky leaves open beside him on the bed. He’s warm and solid, like a living bulwark, and Bucky doesn’t bother keeping himself from leaning into him. They flip to some telenovela with a young dancer, and Bucky translates what Steve can’t decipher from the grand gestures and dramatic expressions. After a few minutes, Steve leans in and rests his head against Bucky’s shoulder with a comfortable sigh.

They stay there till Steve dozes off, lulled by the foreign voices and Bucky’s murmured translations, and gradually, in the melodramatic hum of the TV, Bucky drifts into a shallow sleep as well.

He’s woken some five hours later by the insistent, petulant buzz of his phone against the nightstand. He and Steve have slumped over at some point, so he has to wriggle his arm out from under the other man’s bulk before he can reach for his phone. His hand’s almost completely asleep, and it takes a few tries to unlike it before it finally connects.

“‘lo?” he greets drowsily.

“Bucky?” Becca replies cautiously.

Shifting so he can sit more upright lands Steve’s head on his lap, but Bucky doesn’t feel much like protesting. Instead, he leans his head to pin the phone between it and his shoulder and runs his fingertips through Steve’s short, mussed hair.

“Hey, Becks,” he answers, significantly more coherently. “What’s up?”

“Did I wake you?” she asks, voice a strange mix of concern and glee.

He frowns a little, glances at the clock, and winces.

“Yeah,” he admits, faux-resigned. “California’s changing me.”

She scoffs at the joke.

“Uh-huh. Are you bringing them with you?” she demands abruptly, the concern lost for glee.

“What?” Bucky manages, tracing a swirl down Steve’s skull.

“Your new beau,” Becca clarifies, voice lilting happily.

He freezes, fingers suddenly stiff where they meet Steve’s head. _Knew we should’ve driven. Captain America in a baseball cap? Subtle._

“Um,” Bucky manages. “It’s not-”

“Oh, c’mon, Buck,” Becca interrupts, scoffing. “You wake up at five thirty even on Christmas. So, who is it?”

Irrational relief sweeps through him at the realization that she's just guessing, that he’s not going to get called into Fury’s office because some kid with a smartphone caught Captain America hanging around some mysterious nobody.

“It’s not like that,” he finishes, voice going a little tight as he explains. “Just had a rough night.”

It’s not that Becca doesn’t know about about PTSD and Bucky’s time overseas - though he had been careful to edit what she was told. She didn’t need to know everything. - but mentioning the nightmares, the pain, always brings up a sour taste like stale vomit in the back of his mouth. Regardless of all the understanding platitudes he’s been given, they should be gone by now. He should be fine.

“Oh. Oh, shit,” Becca mumbles. “Sorry, Buck. That was really dumb. I just - well, you said in your email that you were bringing a friend, and then sleeping late - sorry.”

“It’s fine. I probably should’ve thought of that,” he replies immediately before hesitating.

He _is_ bringing a friend over to her apartment, and he doesn’t have any way of dissuading her original hunch that Steve is...more than a friend. _“He doesn’t swing that way.”_ Well, yeah, he kinda’ does. _“We’re just friends.”_ Except friends don’t usually kiss each other and then cuddle, to say nothing of the rest of their relationship. He doesn’t know what they are right now, so he leaves it at, “I am bringing Steve over, but we’re not...a _thing_.”

“Okay,” Becca answers after a pause,  sounding like it’s short for something else she’d rather say. “Cool. So, I’m on my break right now, but I get off at noon. Wanna’ meet up for lunch?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky replies, releasing Steve as the other man starts to wake up. “Where d’y’want to eat?”

Steve shifts and mumbles a semi-coherent, “Feels good,” and Bucky replaces his hand in shaping gentle circles and lines across the grain of Steve’s hair. On the other end, Becca hums faintly in thought before suggesting a sandwich shop near the Starbucks at which she works. Agreeing on twelve-thirty as a meeting time, they chat for a few minutes longer before Becca pauses to yell something to someone on the other end before grumbling to Bucky about having to go back to work, and they say goodbye. Clicking the end call button, Bucky locks his phone and sets it back on the nightstand.

“Your sister?” Steve asks, voice vibrating through his bones against Bucky’s thigh.

“Yeah. Twelve-thirty sound alright for lunch?” Bucky checks, resting his hand against the back of Steve’s neck.

“Mm, yeah,” Steve sighs, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

His hair’s even worse now, all mussed and spiked on the right side and completely flattened on the left, and his running a hand through it does next to nothing to help. Bucky stifles a grin the best he can before nodding towards the bathroom.

"Go wash up," he suggests. "You look like a teenager who's late for school."

Whatever protest Steve’s about to respond with is cut short when Bucky directs his phone towards him and he catches sight of his reflection. Grimacing, he relents and clambers out of bed, stretches his back for a sickening series of cracks,  and shuffles toward the bathroom. Bucky leans back against the headboard to watch the tail end of the soap opera that came on as they slept, kicking the blankets off as he does so. Steve takes under ten minutes before coming out with one of the cheap white hotel towels wrapped around his hips and held in place with one large hand; the other carries the ball of white t-shirt and red flannel made if his pajamas. Bucky takes no longer than Steve did, but when he leaves the bathroom, it's with red-flushed skin and a roomful of steam. Steve glances up from his bag and shakes his head.

"I will never understand how someone who hates heat much as you do can take that kind of shower," he mutters.

It’s a lazy argument they've had for months, and Bucky shrugs with a stifled grin. He dresses in jeans and a t-shirt before throwing on the hoodie he wore on the plane, left sleeve already safety-pinned up. He has a couple of hospital-only sweatshirts with the sleeve sewn up,  but his favorite gets worn whether he's two-armed or one, and will continue to until its threadbare quality gets overtaken by a few more holes.

"Breakfast?" Steve suggests.

"Is it still open?" Bucky asks,  surprised.

The clock reads a quarter till ten, but Steve holds up the little hospitality card proclaiming _Free continental breakfast from 6:00 to 10:00 every morning!_ so Bucky shrugs and follows him out the door. They’re not quite the last ones to enter the dining area, but they are the last ones left; most the latecomers grab a bagel or slice of toast and bolt out the door, late to some new emergency. Leaning back and munching on his cereal, Bucky has a brief moment of disassociation, detachment from the world: when was the last time he was rushing out of a hotel lobby in the broad daylight? _Without gunfire_ , he amends silently. Steve seems to catch something of his line of thought, because he glances up and raises an eyebrow quizzically, spoonful of oatmeal halfway to his mouth.

“It’s weird,” Bucky shrugs.

The quizzical eyebrow lowers to a frown, and a heavy drop of oatmeal plops back into his bowl.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Being here,” Bucky elaborates, gestures vaguely to the lobby. “Normal hotel, normal people, normal reason. It’s just odd.”

Lowering his spoon back to its mostly empty home, Steve glances around and his frown deepens a little as he takes in the hotel staff and the few people passing by in the halls. Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to him.

“Yeah,” he admits, “it kinda’ is.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and rubs the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Huh. Well, what are we _normal people_ going to do till noon?” he asks when he glances up, amusement quirking his lips.

“Depends on you,” Bucky answers, setting his spoon in his empty bowl and leaning back. “‘s not the first time _I’ve_ been to Berkeley.”

They end up on Telegraph Avenue because they can, and it’s about six steps in that Bucky realizes his mistake. Captain America stands for equality, freedom, and justice. Add to that the vibrant air of activism and defiance in the street, and you get, well, Tony Stark’s worst nightmare.

Steve’s deep in a conversation with a random vendor, both of them adamantly arguing the same point, when a kid stops, stares with slack jaw, and then starts nudging their friend urgently. Immediately, Bucky’s on damage control, gripping Steve’s shoulder and pulling on him in a way that spins him with nearly no resistance and has him booking it along behind Bucky before he even asks what’s going on. It’s the same thing that Bucky’s done before when they’re both in the field together, and even without any guns pointed at them, it works.

“What is it?” Steve finally asks when they’re halfway to the prechosen deli.

“Apparently, getting fairly heated about the lack of resources for the poor while looking a lot like Captain America makes it pretty easy to pick you out as _Captain America_ ,” Bucky explains drily.

As expected, Steve flushes a soft pink and rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. "I forgot."

Bucky knocks their shoulders together absently.

"S' okay," he replies. "Just figured you'd rather not miss lunch to sign a thousand hats."

He catches Steve’s grin out of the corner of his eye and smiles a little himself before starting as Steve’s hand brushes against his before catching. Steve glances over, expression determined but nervous, and Bucky glances away in a sorry attempt to hide his smile and tucks their interlaced fingers into his pocket. It's a little awkward, but it brings Steve right up against his shoulder, so he's not going to complain.

"So, Becca, right?" Steve checks.

Bucky nods.

"Alliteration seems to run in the family," he adds.

Steve snorts.

"Becky and Bucky Barnes?" he remarks and Bucky grimaces.

"Worst sibling names ever," he complains.

"If it makes you feel better, my adoptive dad’s Stephen," Steve offers.

Choking on a startled laugh, Bucky glances over to see if Steve’s serious and doesn’t bother fighting the laughter that bubbles up from Steve’s resigned and faintly amused expression.

“Shit,” he huffs out after a minute. "That's terrible."

“Tell me about it,” Steve commiserates. “It’s a disaster.”

Bucky grins and shakes his head a little. He and Becca are rarely near each other long enough for their similar names to be much of a nuisance - only when one of her friends calls for her and he turns is it really noticeable - but he can’t imagine spending years in the same house as someone with a nearly identical name. Trying to picture it leads him to another familiar roadblock: he’s got no idea what it’s like to live with _anyone_ for years.

“So, aside from being... _conservative_ , what are they like?” Bucky asks, curious.

Raising an eyebrow slightly, Steve glances over.

“My parents?” he checks.

Bucky nods, and he pauses a moment, head tilted in thought.

“Kind,” he finally decides. “I mean, aside from very... staunch positions on certain things, they really want everyone to have a good life. They’re always trying to help those in need - whether it was through missions or bringing them into our house for a meal. They tried to teach me that the best way of dealing with bullies was nonviolence, but, well...”

He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, expression chagrined.

“You’re a terrible student,” Bucky provides with a grin.

Smiling back, Steve nods.

“Yeah, pretty much. They’re good people,” he finishes.

As unlike anything he’s experienced as it is, Bucky can’t help feeling a little bit of that contentment radiating off of Steve. Steve might be too trusting and generous with his assessments of people, but there’s a quality of warmth in his voice that makes Bucky believe him on this at least.

“Shame how they got you,” he teases, but it’s entirely without bite.

Steve looks over with a goofy little smile.

“Jerk,” he answers.

“Punk,” Bucky mutters back, and then they’re within sight of the little deli, and he squeezes Steve’s hand once before releasing it.

Becca’s there just a few minutes after they’ve found a seat, dark hair falling out of the ponytail into which she’s pulled it, and her blue eyes crinkle up in a broad grin as she spots Bucky. He can’t help echoing the smile and stands to wrap his arm around her when she grabs him around the ribs. She’s skinny and short where he’s tall and lean, and he feels the second her breath catches just before words come out. Immediately, she  pulls back, and he braces himself for the inevitable worry and confusion.

"Buck-" she starts, but he cuts her off with a self-deprecating smile and gesture to the booth.

"It's okay," he promises. "Just waiting on the new-and-improved version."

She doesn’t look even remotely convinced, but he chalks that up to his tendency to start lies with the same line. After a moment of studying him with flattened lips and a frown, she relents and smooths her features out to smile politely as she reaches a great hand out to Steve.

"You must be Steve," she greets.

"Pleased to meet you," he replies.

She smiles a little, shoots Bucky a side-eye that _screams_ ‘Really? _Captain America?_ ’ and settles into the sticky vinyl seat.

“So, gonna’ just go ahead and assume you’re in the super-secret government stuff, too, and can’t talk about it,” she declares breezily. “Now, me, on the other hand, we can talk all day about.”

She’s grinning when she says it, an easy teasing edge to it like they’re kids, and Bucky relaxes, rests his elbow on the table and reminds himself stubbornly not to lean into Steve’s furnace-like shoulder. It’s not his fault he’s a six-foot-two radiator, but it does make for a quietly frustrating lunch...especially once Becca and Steve get on their more-or-less-the-same-but-still-different-enough-to-debate political thoughts.

“No, that’s bullshit,” Becca declares with a shrug. “The government needs to just step back and leave people alone. It’s there to take care of commerce and, like, _murder_. It’s not supposed to interfere with everything.”

“Yeah, but if we don’t have laws protecting our rights, there’s nothing keeping them from being taken by future governments,” Steve retorts, gesturing with his hands.

Bucky excuses himself to use the bathroom because he’s seen both of them get on this track, and it’s like two unstoppable trains running into each other: either there’s going to be one hell of an explosion, or the momentums gonna’ keep them running forever.

When he returns, Becca’s looking particularly smug, and Steve a little shell-shocked. _Explosion it was, then._

“Anarchist win you over?” he teases, dropping down beside Steve again.

Becca scoffs at the name, jumping in to defend herself immediately while Steve sits quietly beside him. Despite the curious looks Bucky shoots his way a few times throughout the conversation, Steve adds nothing.

“So, anyway, there’s this carnival tomorrow that I’m supposed to work at,” Becca explains as they’re getting ready to leave, “but you guys should come around. It’ll be great.”

“You’re working at a carnival?” Bucky asks, incredulous.

Becca heaves a long-suffering sigh and shakes her head a little.

“It’s a long story,” she mutters.

Grinning, Bucky ruffles her dark hair and lets her go. He and Steve head back to the ramp in which they parked the rental, and after a few blocks, Steve reaches over to lace his fingers in with Bucky’s again. A corner of Bucky’s lips pulls up and he glances over at Steve.

“You’ve got quite a sister,” Steve declares mildly.

The half-smile stretches into a broad, unabashedly proud grin.

“Tell me about it,” he answers happily.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm sorry?
> 
> I'm so atrociously terrible at writing anything remotely romantic. I'msosorry.
> 
> also I've basically given up on adding the indentations when AO3 takes them away, so I'll probs come back later and fix it, but no promises.
> 
> As always, thank you thank you thank you for being supportive and kind and interested in this giant disaster! I owe you guys a million.


	12. Chapter 12

         Most the day is spent wandering around an art museum, Bucky stifling laughter as Steve sighs and aw’s over various masterpieces, only to pause and critique them for a moment before returning to his quiet wonder.

         "You're ridiculous," he scoffs at one point.

         Steve glances over, blue eyes wide for a split second before he grins and shrugs.

         "They were great," he explains,  "but nobody's perfect."

         "Okay, Disney," Bucky teases. "What's wrong with that one?"

         "It's not that there's anything _wrong_ with it," Steve objects, but he’s heading over to the piece anyway, "it's just that there's always something that could be better. Like, here, if his face was a little lighter and warmer, it'd get your focus better instead of just blending in."

         Bucky shakes his head slightly,  trying to study the twists and contortions of the figure to which Steve refers. He can maybe see it, but honestly, he’s never been much of an art student.

         “What about this one?” he suggests, wandering over to a new one.

         Steve steps up beside him, just to the back and right, and there's a rustle of fabric as his shoulders twitch in an apparently involuntary shudder. Frowning a little, Bucky glances back to the painting and then to Steve again. The guy wears his heart like a medal on his chest, but Bucky’s only seen the open, hate-terror mix in his baby blues once before. The reminder twists a knot tight under his ribs.

         "I hate this one," Steve admits under his breath,.

         Bucky eyes him curiously before turning back to the painting.

         "How come?" he can't help asking.

         Sure, it's no Mona Lisa, but it seems more odd and modern-esque than truly terrible. If anything, the watered-down purple and garish yellow make it look like a circus sign.

         “It’s a study of another portrait,” Steve explains. “Originally, it was - well, peaceful. Just a moment in the pope’s life. This one - it’s like we’re seeing his nightmare in full color.”

         Sliding his hand out of his pocket to scratch absently at the side of his neck, Bucky frowns and studies the painting a little closer. It’s a little creepy when he puts it into that perspective, but he still doesn’t get Steve’s utter revulsion.

         "Huh," he finally manages before leaning back to catch Steve’s gaze. “Good thing we can’t afford it.”

         Steve laughs, and Bucky grins back before subtly nudging him towards a new piece. There's no point spending their vacation in front of a painting neither cares for.  

         "So, how come you're not off teaching art history at some college?" he asks when they're sitting in a park a few blocks away, basking in the sun.

         Steve shrugs and his lips twitch a little. His eyes are closed, leaning back on his elbows, and he looks just like any other California kid lounging in the perpetual sunlight.

         "My dad served in the 107th," he explains. "There was never really any chance i wouldn't join the military. Just my health that stood in the way.”

         Eyeing him from the corner of his eyes, Bucky huffs out a breath and shifts so he’s flat on his stomach. Steve glances over as he moves, but it's a fleeting look that disappears almost immediately as Bucky settles back down.

         "And Plan B?" Bucky prompts. "If you didn't get picked to a be super soldier?"

         "Join the police force, become a firefighter," Steve lists, "work in the Forest Service - it didn't really matter as long as I was directly helping the country."

         Bucky smiles, eyes closing under the warm weight of the sun seeping through his dark hoodie. They're quiet for a few minutes, hovering in that gentle dozing state halfway between a true nap and true wakefulness.  

         "How often do you and Becca see each other?" Steve asks eventually,.

         Eyes opening to lazy slits, Bucky studies Steve languidly before closing them again.

         "Couple times a year, maybe," he answers. "Kinda' depends on where I am during the holidays. 's not like I can just kidnap her from her family whenever. How come?"

         Steve tilts his head, gazing off at either an overhanging leaf or the passing clouds - Bucky can't tell.

         "You two just seem really close, " he explains, glancing down at Bucky with a smile. "It doesn't seem like you grew up apart."

         "We talk pretty often," Bucky offers after a moment. "When we first got split up, Beck had to call me every night or she couldn't sleep. Now, we mostly just text or email."

         Those first few months had been more of a hell than Bucky will ever willingly admit to anyone; for what felt like all of his twelve years, he'd been fighting to protect Becca, keep her safe whenever there was even the slightest bit of danger. Once she was adopted, though - well, there was no way for him to protect her when she was across the country in a strange family's home. To say that neither had slept well was a gross understatement.

         "Yeah?" Steve asks, eyes open and focused on Bucky now.

         Bucky shrugs.

         "Yeah," he affirms.  

         It's not that he doesn't trust Steve or anything, but there are some things that never need to be brought up again. His father ranks at the top of that list.

         Steve nods, apparently satisfied, and nestles down a little closer to Bucky, their sides pressed together. Even with the tale end of his thoughts lingering like arsenic in his thoughts, Bucky grins and presses back.  

         The rest of the afternoon's quiet, spent lounging in the park and then, eventually, clambering to their feet to find their way down to Berkeley's campus for Becca's carnival. The sun's setting in flaming bands of scarlet and orange when they reach the campus, and the first of the carnival's lights are beginning to  brighten in intermittent dots of white against the darkening sky. Tents and stands are set up along a makeshift main drag arched over by a broad sign stating "WELCOME TO THE CARNIVAL OF THE ARTS" in skewed and dotted letters.

         "Creative," Bucky mutters to Steve.

         He gets a knock in the shoulder for that, but it's with an amused expression on Steve's face. Neither slips their hand  into the other's until they've spotted Becca in a vibrant tank top and harem pants ensemble behind the ticket booth's plywood desk.  

         "What are you trying for -  most 60s look?" Bucky teases, rifling through his wallet for the necessary twenty bucks.

         Steve starts to object but is drowned out by Becca’s rolled eyes and retort.

         “At least I don't look like a homeless person, Mr. I-wear-the-same-hoodie-every-day," she rejoins.

         "It's comfy!" Bucky responds.

         She rolls her eyes and slides the bill into the vinyl pouch  under the shelf.  

         "Yeah, yeah, HAVE FUN ON YOUR DATE!" she calls as loudly as possible as they walk away.

         Steve starts in surprise,  but that might be because Bucky grabs his hand and raises it up high enough for Becca to see their interlaced fingers above the growing crowd. He shoots Bucky a questioning, startled look, and Bucky shrugs. Steve's lips twitch in a funny little down-up movement, and he pauses, turned a quarter or so towards Bucky.

         "I'd really like to kiss you, if that's o-" he starts.

         He doesn't really finish, because his lips are a little busy with Bucky's.  When they break apart, it's with considerably less haste than the last time. Bucky’s lips pull up in a faint smile, face just a breath from Steve’s and -

         "Your phone’s vibrating," Steve comments,  effortlessly ruining the moment.

_Note to self: romance is dead where Steve Rogers exists._

         "This is one of those times where having two hands is really useful," Bucky mutters, loosing his hand to  pull his phone out of his back pocket. Sure enough, there's a new message notification, and Bucky grins at the indignant, _YOU LIAR_ from Becca.  

         He sends back a smiley face and turns the phone on silent before entwining his fingers with Steve's once again and starting in onto the carnival.

         There are only twenty or so vendors, and they spend a few minutes just wandering around gawking. Each one has some sort of sign promoting how their stall will help the underfunded Arts college at Berkeley, but most the kids behind them just seem to be having fun. Bucky feels a tug on his hand while eyeing some hand-crafted bowls that look a lot like something Natasha would like, and when he looks up, Steve’s nodding towards a face-painting stand.

 _Really?_ his quirked eyebrows ask, but he doesn't offer any verbal objection.

         "Hey, fellas," the girl at the stand greets, her own face disguised by the vibgrant orange of a tiger's painted pelt. "What do you want today?"

         "Something patriotic," Bucky pipes up with perfect innocence, "for this guy. He's a real American."

         Before Steve can shoot him any sort of look, the girl beams and gestures towards the stool.  

         "Sweet! We don't get that a lot, so it's nice to hear," she gushes.

         Steve smiles politely and Bucky stifles a grin - until:

         “Oh, just wait for Buck,” Steve comments, all wide-eyed innocence. “He’s obsessed with the supernatural. Ghosts, especially.”

         Bucky doesn't even bother trying not to glare: it’s hopeless. The girl’s nose scrunches up a little before shrugging and smiling.

         “My girlfriend’s obsessed with that show - _Supernatural_? - every Tuesday, it’s all she’ll talk about,” she admits before pausing, brush held thoughtfully away from Steve’s half-blue face. “Most the other days, too.”

         Both he and Steve end up laughing at that, and she smiles and goes back to painting the rest of the American flag across Steve’s face. Once she’s finally finished, he’s got a startlingly realistic banner fluttering over his features, the top edge swooping down just above his right eyebrow.

         “Whoa,” Bucky hums appreciatively. “Looks good.”

         “Your turn!” the girl chirps cheerily. “Not sure how well I can do a ghost, but what about a skull?”

         He shrugs noncommittally and drops down onto her stool. It seems to take forever with her brush tickling around his eyes and cheeks and leaving trails of black over a flat coat of white, but when she flaps his hand in front of his face to dry it before telling him he’s good, it’s only been a few minutes.

         “How’s it look?” he asks Steve, who’s studying his face with a funny expression.

         “Spooky,” is the immediate response followed by, “but cool.”

         Steve leans in to kiss him then, both of them breaking apart to laugh about the taste of face paint on their lips. Bucky slides their hands together as consolation, and they strike off for the human menagerie. Later, Becca demands a selfie with both of them, and it ends up on her Instagram with Bucky lurking over her shoulder and Steve beaming like a happy eagle.

         He should have known that things could only go downhill from there.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm just going to sit here and say "thank you" and "I'm sorry" a lot.


	13. Chapter 13

         “Under normal circumstances, we would have no objections to your relationship,” Fury explains, and Bucky wonders how many times he’s given this speech or if it’s as uncomfortable for him as it sounds. “However, given Sergeant Barnes’ covert status, it is imperative that he doesn’t receive the media attention that you do. I’m sure you understand.”

 _You can’t even fucking recognize me_ , Bucky wants to object, but Steve’s sitting tight-lipped and stiff beside him already: it’s just not worth fighting.

        “Understood,” he answers for both of them instead. “Is there anything else, sir?”

        “Stark has a prosthetic ready," Fury answers with a sigh,  leaning back in his chair. "Once you're comfortable with it,  we'll move onto finishing up HYDRA."

        Bucky nods tersely, jaw clenched too tight to answer verbally, and, after a moment, Steve does the same. Fury dismisses them then, turning back to his paperback as they stand stiff-backed and nearly march out the door. _It's not his fault_ , Bucky reminds himself in a low, tight mantra. _He's doing his job and keeping you safe._ It doesn't feel like that, though: it feels like getting called into the principal's office in high school did, where one slight misstep left you with cheeks flushed in indignation and more shame than he ever wanted to admit. Seven years later, he's still fending off an intruding blush. Beside him, Steve doesn't seem to be faring much better.

        "It's not that - " Steve starts, breaks off, and scowls at the ground for a moment. "I’d do anything to keep you safe."

        He says it with the conviction of a confession, and Bucky wants to reach out for his hand and promise, _I know_ , but it’s clear Steve’s not finished yet.

        "I just - I don't want to pretend that I don't care about you, either," Steve finishes unhappily. “I want to be able to be with you without hiding it.”

        "Yeah," Bucky agrees. "I should've thought about that before taking the picture."

        Steve shakes his head firmly.

        "It wouldn't change anything," he points out.

        "Might've prolonged it a little," Bucky counters. "I mean, are we even allowed to be around each other anymore or is it the whole Montague-Capulet deal?"

        As hoped, his query provokes a little, startled grin from Steve, and he lets his lips curve faintly in their own reflection.

        "Well, I'm not climbing in your window if Natasha's on watch," Steve objects, "so I guess you're gonna' have to be Romeo."

        Grinning fully now, Bucky shrugs and affects a nonchalant expression.

        "Well, I am pretty fearless," he allows.

        "...and reckless and prone to throwing yourself into dangerous situations," Steve adds in a faux-cough.

        "Oh, hush," Bucky scoffs. "Like you aren't a thousand times worse."

        "I at least have a shield," Steve objects. "You just go in without any protection."

        It's a light-hearted repeat of a legitimate argument they've had before, and Bucky forces himself not to bristle at Steve's concern. He knows that it's just because Steve cares and can't stand seeing other people hurt, but it always treads dangerously close to Bucky's limited tolerance of belittlement.  

        "Yeah, well, I'll trade you your shield for my gun and see how that works out," he retorts back instead of a real reply.

        Steve rolls his eyes, good humour slowly pulling back over the disgruntled cloud he'd been wearing since Fury's office.

        "Jerk," he mutters.  "That'd end with both of us dead."

        Bucky grins a little and knocks their shoulders together as they cross the street and head to Stark Tower.  They lapse into a comfortable silence after that, each with their thoughts undoubtedly in different directions. Bucky can't help wondering  how long SHIELD will give them before sending them back out. After all, one Stark prosthetic is more or less the same as the next, and it's unlikely to keep take him long to relearn it. A month or so and he should be just as good as before Zola's return. He represses an instinctual shudder at the thought of the name and lets himself lean a little closer to Steve instead. If Fury wants to complain - well, the streets are plenty crowded and they wouldn’t want to lose each other.  

        "You okay?" Steve asks.

        "Yeah," Bucky shrugs. "Just wondering how long it'll be till they send us out again."

        Steve hums a little, thoughtful.

        "Probably sooner than I like," he finally concludes.

        "What, getting sick of being a soldier?" Bucky teases, only half-joking.

        Glancing over with a little quirk to his lips, Steve shrugs.

        "I'd rather spend the time with you than hunting Nazis," he clarifies. "Or, I guess, I'd rather spend time with you doing something other than hunting Nazis."

        "Well, we could try Communists," Bucky offers, straight-faced. "We haven't had a Red Scare in a few years."

        Steve shakes his head, smiling, and his hand twitches as if to take Bucky's, before he catches himself and stuffs it firmly in his jacket pocket. Despite not getting to feel even a brush of it, Bucky's skin itches with the missing contact. He's grown perhaps too used to Steve's broad, warm hand wrapped around his in the past few days.

        "So, what’s it like? I mean, getting a new arm - prosthetic, and all," Steve asks, changing the subject as they step in through the broad glass doors of Stark Tower.

        A security guard nods to Steve and steps aside to let them into an elevator, and Bucky leans against the back of the car as they descend.

        "It's...I don't know. They have to connect the synthetic nerves up with whatever's left in here," he explains, gesturing towards his empty shoulder, "and then they just make sure the new socket fits right. It's pretty boring."

        And, really, it is. Except for the part where he's consciously focused on keeping his free hand hooked onto something that's not going to end up half-dead and bruised when his panic rises above its usual level. Somehow, that part always keeps from making the appointments too dull.

        "Do you want me to stay out of the room when you go in?" Steve asks, brow furrowed and eyes dark with concern.

        "Nah," Bucky finally answers, after hesitating too long. "I mean, whatever you want to do. Like I said, it's boring."

        For a moment, he thinks Steve’s going to press it, but he just gives a subtle little nod and leans into his heels beside Bucky.

        “Well, not like I’ve got anything better to do,” he offers, and that settles that.

        Maggie opens the door as usual, but her general greeting is cut off by a sharp squeak at the sight of Steve. Glancing over with laughter tightly squashed between his pressed lips, Bucky can spot the start of a pink blush creeping over Steve’s cheekbones. For her part, Maggie looks entirely mortified and completely abandons their usual banter. It’s just as well: Bucky doesn’t really feel like flirting.

        “Morning, Sergeant,” the doctor greets absently, barely giving Steve a cursory glance.

        Giving an abbreviated version of a polite nod, Bucky unzips his hoodie and begins peeling off his layers before sitting down on the edge of the table. It’s not quite as fluid as the last time he was in here, because even with practice, getting things off one-handed when you’re used to two is hard.

        His skin twitches like a horse’s pelt, a quick, shivery jerk that leaves goosebumps in its wake, and he clenches his teeth, smoothing the shirts draped over his thigh. A broad hand nudges his and he glances up, startled, as Steve slides their fingers together. Bucky’s is on top, as if to allow him the opportunity to escape.

        “They already know who you are,” Steve explains in a voice too low for any but Bucky to hear.

        Tightening his grip on Steve’s hand, Bucky nods and gives him a grateful, tight-lipped smile. They’ll knock him out for the actual attachment, but the anticipation that shivers through the entire preparation is almost worse. The doctors hum and mumble to themselves and each other, fingers ghosting over Bucky’s bared shoulder and a marker tip whisking across carefully. It’s thirty-odd minutes of Bucky staring straight ahead, fingertips dug in hard enough to bruise anyone except your average super soldier.

        “Alright, everything looks good. If you could just lay back, Sergeant, we’ll get this over with,” the one doctor prompts with a genial smile.

        Steve’s giving him a worried look, but Bucky merely lays back as he’s told. There’s a pinch of an IV and then black starts gently seeping into his vision before it washes it out completely.

        When he comes to, it’s with a tingling itch over his right shoulder blade from where it’s been pressed into the vinyl seat and Steve’s worried face hovering over him. Reaching across to rub at the itch, Bucky shifts upright and raises his eyebrows at Steve. The doctors are on the other side of him, making notes and finishing up whatever else they do.

        “Welcome back, Sarge,” Maggie greets, seemingly unbothered by Steve’s looming presence now that the initial surprise is over. “We just have a few tests to make sure everything’s working alright, okay?”

        Bucky nods, gives Steve’s hand a squeeze and releases it. With the new weight returned to his side, his mood’s lifted, the white-knuckled fear sliding a little farther from him. Admittedly, that might have something to do with the lingering effects of the anesthetic.

        Maggie hands over a stress ball for Bucky to squeeze and roll between his new fingers. They’re white this time, black edging reminding him faintly of storm troopers. He stifles a laugh at the thought and moves onto the writing part of these tests. As usual, he passes with ease and is released with the admonition to “Rest and take it easy” for a few days.

        He's still toying with his new fingers when they exit the tower, and Steve looks over with a laughing grin.

        "Shut up," Bucky mutters before he can say anything, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

        "Wasn't saying anything," Steve protests, but he's grinning still.  

        They get approximately five steps out of the door before pausing an realizing that they haven't decided where they're actually going.

        "So, I should probably check in with Nat," Bucky admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "But, I mean - if you wanted to do something later..."

        "Yeah, Steve agrees immediately. "Yeah, I'd like that."

        "Cool," Bucky replies, silently scoffing at the eloquence of his conversation. "Uh - just, uh, text?"

        "Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that," Steve affirms before pausing and laughing. "God, we sound like teenagers!"

        "Speak for yourself, Rogers," Bucky scoffs. "I'm a regular Cary Grant."

        Steve rolls his eyes and knocks his shoulder into Bucky's carelessly.

        "Jerk," he mutters.

        "Yeah, yeah," Bucky agrees. "This jerk'll see you 'round, punk."

        Steve nods and grins before heading off back into the Tower. Wherever he's headed, Bucky doesn't ask. Instead, he shoots a text to Natasha asking for a ride and waits for approximately thirty seconds before a plain black sedan skids up to the side of the street, window rolled down and Natasha prepped for one of her signature bad jokes. Bucky pops open the door and drops in before she has a chance to say it.

        "Let's see it," she prompts, the car still idling.

        Rolling his eyes, Bucky tugs up his hoodie sleeve to show off the newly minted white limb.  She gives it a quick, cursory survey with narrowed eyes.

        "Can we go?" Bucky prompts. "You've got plenty of time to check it out later."

        She gives a faux-put-upon sigh and flings the car back into the traffic. With his arms braced against the side of the car and the center console, Bucky manages to keep from getting thrown forward into the dash, but it's a close thing. He shoots a glare at Natasha and frees his right hand to slot in his seatbelt.

        "So, what's with the radio silence?" she asks, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel as they slow for traffic.

        If she had her way, Bucky is absolutely certain that Natasha would invest in a flying car just to avoid waiting for other people. While he can understand the issues with flying cars, the whiplash caused by her attempts to create the feeling à terre leaves him silently hoping Stark hurries up and gets those cars in the air.

        "Figured you didn't want constant updates," Bucky hedges.

        She side-eyes the hell out of him but doesn't press, for which he's silently grateful. Instead, they drive to the apartment in the comfortable silence of no conversation and just the low murmur of the radio playing some nondescript station.

        When they've pulled into the ramp and found a spot, Bucky reaches out to rest his fingertips lightly on Natasha's wrist.

        "Hey," he starts, "I'm sorry for leaving you out of the loop.”

        He doesn’t add more or point out that he certainly didn’t mean for her to feel abandoned; he knows she knows, and anyway, what he meant it to be doesn’t matter when it clearly came across differently. She's perfectly still for a few moments before finally nodding once and releasing the steering wheel. He takes that as his cue to brush away from her.

        Inside, the apartment's exactly as it way before he left; dishes neatly stacked and put away, a stack of books beside the couch - a few tomes higher than before - and his black sweats thrown over the hamper but not quite in.

        "Shit, I missed these," he admits, flicking the pants up from their languid drape.

        Behind him, Natasha snorts in laughter  and he glances back to see her shaking her head a little.

        "I get why you didn't think I wanted updated on everything you were up to. Must've been pretty exciting pining over your lost sweats,” she teases.

        Relieved that she's not still upset, Bucky grins and drops his pants fully into the hamper.  He unpacks, if only partially, because he’s sure they’re going back out soon, but it’s not today. Probably not tomorrow either - _if we’re lucky._

        "How is Becca?" Natasha asks over lunch.

        Mouth full of bread and ham and cheese, Bucky raises a hand to stall for a moment as he chews and swallows.

        "Good," he shrugs. "New boyfriend, busy stirring up trouble with student protests an' all. Nothing new."

        Hiding a grin behind her own sandwhich, Natasha shakes her head.

        "You're an idiot," she declares fondly. "New boyfriend, though? Need 'im checked out?"

        Bucky waves a hand to say _Taken care of_.

        "Some punk named Proctor," he  explains. "Law major."

        Satisfied, Natasha takes another bite and chews in silence for a bit.

        "How come Cap went with you? Wasn't that weird?" she queries.

        Painfully conscious of her acuity in reading people, Bucky chews slowly on his latest bite.

        "We've been living out of each other's pockets for the past six months," he points out. "Not like you can get much weirder than that, and I dunno'. He just seems kinda' lonely."

        Lips pursed, Natasha nods thoughtfully.

        “He has half of SHIELD at his beck and call - not to mention Stark," she objects.  

        "Yeah, well,” Bucky hesitates, pausing to work his words out, "I think he wants people who want to be around him, not people who are told to be."

        Her lips twitch a little at that, brow furrowing slightly. She doesn't have to say it for Bucky to know she's thinking of her own time, when she first came to SHIELD and the only people ever found near her beyond necessity were Bucky and Barton. It might not be quite the same as Steve, but it's close enough to be relatable.  

        "Well," she starts after a few thoughtful moments, "I've got a date tonight, so you're on your own for dinner. Think you can manage without burning down the apartment?"

        Bucky shoots her an unnappreciative look.

        "Yeah, 'cause I was the one who started _that_ fire," he replies drily.

        She smiles, pleased, and carries her dishes to the sink.  She returns after a minute or two, something held in her hand.

        "Check out what I found," she announces, opening her hand.

        It's a stiletto, beautifully decorated with delicately illuminated white blooms and gold vines twining over the black handle. There's something in Italian inscribed on the blade, and Bucky glances up at Natasha as he rubs his thumb over the letters.

        "May my bite be deadly," she translates.

        He smiles faintly, running a careful finger analog the matte blade, before turning it hilt-first to return to Natasha.

        "It's beautiful," he comments.

        "Isn't it?" Natasha smiles, clearly pleased. "You keep it. I've got plenty."

        Hiding a smile, Bucky thanks her and sets the knife beside his plate while he finishes his lunch. Though she has the mask of nonchalant indifference nearly perfected, Natasha’s proclivity to incidently end up with carefully thought-out gifts for those closest to her has long been a well-guarded split in her façade.

        They spend the next couple of hours orbiting each other in that way they established almost immediately after moving in together; Natasha drifting from her books to her knives and back while Bucky makes his bed and gives a lazy effort towards neatening up his room. Around four, when he’s flopped back on his bed with his airport book, phone resting on his chest so that he doesn’t miss Steve’s texts, Natasha leans into his doorway in a form-skimming black dress, red heels in hand. He lifts an eyebrow that she entirely ignores.

        “I’m headed out. Need anything  before I go?” she checks.

        “I’m good,” he answers, adding as she turns away, “Tell Barton I still want a rematch on that shooting contest!”

        He knows she heard him, but the only sign of that that he gets is a slight shake of her shoulder-length hair. He grins anyway, and turns back to his book.

        It used to be like this, before: ships passing in the night with only a long enough pause between missions to call out a greeting as one ran back to the door the other was entering. Much as he’s enjoyed the past week of domesticity, he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t missed the busy mess of their lives.

        His phone vibrates, and he releases the book with his right hand to unlock it.

_Chinese ok?_

_Sounds great_

        He drops his phone back down and goes to read when he freezes to glance around his room. While there’s little reason to think they’ll even be in here tonight, but there’s still a small, high-school aged part of him that sends him lurching to his feet to dart around, throwing lcothes in his closet or dresser depending on which is closest and trying to neaten the stack of paperbacks by his bed into a neat little tower.

_Be over in 5_

        Bucky grins, surveys his room with satisfaction, and just barely keeps from sending another _Sounds good_ back to Steve. Flipping off his light, Bucky pauses in the bathroom to double-check that his hair hasn’t abruptly turned into liberty spikes or any other absurd style - it hasn’t - and that it isn’t too terribly obvious that he’s done virtually nothing all day. Catching himself scowling at his jeans, Bucky huffs. He yanks his hoodie off and tugs on the hem of his U2 tee self-consciously before giving up and heading back into the main room. Luckily, there’s a knock at the door and a buzz from his phone before he can fiddle with anything else in the apartment. Both are Steve.

        “Hey,” he greets, opening the door.

        “Hey,” Steve echoes.

        His hair’s mussed and ruffled as if by the wind, and there’s a bite of pink on his cheeks. Somehow, this seems only to brighten his already impossible ocean-blue eyes.

        “Did you walk?” Bucky asks incredulously as he lets Steve in.

        “Nah, just took my bike,” Steve explains, running a self-conscious hand back through his hair.

        It takes a moment of staring at the leather on Steve’s jacket before Bucky realizes that ‘bike’ doesn’t equal ‘bicycle.’ The thought of Steve astride a motorcycle is forcibly brushed aside as he pulls out one of the chairs from the table where Steve’s dropped the takeout.

        “How’d you get all this on a motorcycle?” he demands.

        Shrugging nonchalantly, Steve grins and winks.

        “Guess I’m just good like that,” he declares cheekily.

        Bucky scoffs and reaches out for the takeout box nearest him as Steve settles across from him.

        There's a little bit of silence as they chow down on their chicken and rice , and [but[ it quickly falls into their regular banter as Bucky reaches over to snag some of Steve's and they end up splitting both their dishes anyway.

        "Probably should've brought more," Steve muses, leaning back in his seat.

        Bucky shrugs, glancing over the empty dishes arrayed before them, He's still not entirely sure how Steve managed to fit this onto a motorcycle, much less even more food.

        "Yeah, 'cause your skills are _really_ that good," he scoffs.

        "You'd be amazed what I can balance on a motorcycle," Steve retorts proudly before he pauses, ears suddenly burning red.

        Bucky smirks back at him, eyebrow lifting.

        "Oh, yeah?" he asks.

        "Shut up," Steve mutters, the flush spreading to his cheeks.

        Bucky grins and leans forward for rest his hanchin on his left hand.

        "Please tell me all about what what you can do on a motorcycle, " he prompts.    

        Huffing out a breath, Steve leans back and claps his hands together.

        "So, we should probably clean this up," he declares.

        Still grinning a little at the obvious topic chance, Bucky shakes his head and stands to help stack and carry the empty boxes to the trash. Once they're gone, Steve hesitates, chewing on his lip as he eyes Bucky in what he clearly thinks is a surreptitious manner.

        "What're you looking at, Rogers?" Bucky teases, leaning back against the end of the counter to eye Steve lazily.

        "You're sure you're okay?" Steve asks, voice startlingly unsure and tentative.

        Bucky freezes for a moment, caught off-guard. Steve'd asked a few times early in their forced break, but he had mostly seemed content  to accept Bucky's answers at face value. Now, though, his brow is furrowed by a little crease again, the one that says he's not sure what he's supposed to be doing and how he can help, sand his gaze is painfully earnest.

        "Jesus, Steve," Bucky mutters, stepping forward to pull Steve down by his neck. "I'm fine."

        Steve follows his lead, pressing a chaste kiss into Bucky's lips, but he still pulls back to scrutinize Bucky's face.

        "I promise," Bucky adds, "I'm perfectly fine.”

        The tip of Steve's tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip, and Bucky's gaze gets dragged their in an instant. That shift in attention seems to be all Steve needs, because he leans back down for a kiss. This time, when Bucky slides the tip of his tongue along the seam of Steve's lips, they part with a soft gasp, and then any innocence ascribed to the first kiss is rapidly thrown to the wind. Steve' mouth is hot and vaguely spicy, tinged with a taste that Bucky'd probably prefer not to identify, but hard to focus on that when Captain America himself is licking his way into Bucky's mouth with the in a level of patience and thoroughness that leaves Bucky breathless. Bucky pulls away for air eventually, face hot and heart thudding with an exhilarating arrhythmia. Steve's eyes are blown, pupils black and stretched out to cover most of his painfully bright irises.  

        "Couch?" Steve asks.

        "Or bed," Bucky offers, a little breathless. "Bed is good."

        He doesn't get a chance to offer any more guidance, because Steve's arms are under his, pulling him up so that Bucky has to either wrap his legs around Steve's waist or be dragged through the hall. He doesn't exactly mind having to pick the former. They're still kissing, but it's messier now, and their progress to Bucky's bedroom is, well, slow. It doesn't help that there are walls conveniently located throughout the apartment to Steve the opportunity to press Bucky against them and kiss him half-senseless. When they've finally reached the end of the hal, Bucky gestures blindly to the left - close as he is to Natasha, he's not about to make out with Steve in her bed.

        Steve, thankfully, gets the memo and within moments, they're dropping onto Bucky's bed with Steve's hands braced either side of his head, ostensibly to keep from crushing him.

        "Fuck," Steve breathes out as Bucky shifts to kissing and sucking a mark into his the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

        Bucky grins into his skin, shifting so he can slide his hands down Steve's back and then back up, this time under his t-shirt. Steve shivers, a whole body shudder, and he leans back to tug off his jacket and toss it on the floor. His shirt follows rapidly, dropping on top of Bucky's rapidly-removed tee as well.

        "Shoes," Bucky breathes out, ignoring his own advice to kiss Steve again.

        Steve makes a low groan that transmits as little more than a vibration through Bucky's jawbone, but he reluctantly pulls away to unlace and shuck off his boots before leaning back down to Bucky.

        His jeans are starting to get uncomfortable, but Bucky doesn't address that now: he has the whole expanse of Steve opened up before him, and, frankly, it's a little hard to breath. Making sure to relay his intentions first, he rolls them so that Steve's below him, eyes wide and chest flushed with the soft carmine blush painting his whole skin.

        "God, you're beautiful," Bucky whispers, staring down at Steve.

        The flush, if possible, intensifies into a bright scarlet, and Steve rubs the back of his neck absently, as if embarrassed. His gaze flicks downward.

        "Yeah, well, serum had to come in handy somehow," he jokes half-heartedly.

        "You're an idiot," Bucky responds, leaning down over him so that his weight's braced over Steve's shoulders. "I mean, yeah, your body's fine. The Renaissance was missing out, but god. You're just incredible."

        Steve's gaze flicks up to Bucky's, eyebrows quirked a little uncertainly, as Bucky presses little light kisses in a trail down his neck and chest. There are goosebumps now, raised up in the wake of Bucky's gentle lips.

        "You're a dumbass," Bucky admits in between kisses, "but you're also the most impossibly big-hearted person I've met. You don't get it, do you? You're so much more than Captain America, and you never let yourself see it."

        He pauses now, He pauses a moment, both to catch his breath and to decipher the expression on Steve's face. It's a little awed, a little broken, and a lot turned on. _Huh, Steve's got a praise kink,_ Bucky thinks in amusement before he's getting rolled onto his back and lips are pressed firmly against his. He doesn't think much more for the rest of the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm just gonna' burrow a little deeper into my corner and continue to mumble apologies and thank you's
> 
>  
> 
> But really, thank you all for taking time to read this and bookmark/comment/etc; it's total shit and I'm really sick of it, but I am unspeakably grateful to you guys. Hopefully I'll have something at least marginally better to post after this is finished!


	14. Chapter 14

        Falling in love, Bucky discovers in the next few weeks, is perhaps the most accurate of the ridiculous sentiments he’s ever heard. There’s no other word for the way he doesn’t realize he’s falling till he’s halfway through freefall, chest tight and free in the way it is whenever he misses the last step of his apartment stairs - like any moment, he’s going to come crashing down, but till he hits bottom, he’s enjoying the ride.

        It’s the inane things, the little idiosyncrasies that he’s always scoffed at, that are his undoing: the way Steve nestles up next to him in the mornings, wide awake but perfectly content to pretend otherwise; the meals that he absolutely cannot make without scorching at least one ingredient; the strange mix of oldies and rap that inevitably get Steve’s fingers tapping against the armrest or steering wheel. He’s watching the idiot sashay down the hall with a laundry basket against one hip when an exasperated voice mutters, _You are in so fucking deep, Barnes._ Even that, though, is without much reproach: no matter how thick he’s built the walls around his trust, deflecting any thoughts of ‘home’ or ‘family,’ they stand little chance against the gentle press of Steve Rogers’ warmth. In a month, max, they’ll have melted into nothing more than memories.

        Shaking his head, he turns back to the dinner he’s cooking; a lazy meal of tortillas piled in with corn, beans, and chicken that easy as hell and plenty to feed an over-metabolized super soldier. The radio’s playing some latin-beated tune about dancing, and after approximately thirty seconds of humming absently along to it, Bucky’s given up and singing along at the top of his lungs. According to Natasha, he’s got a voice like a cat shelter at night, and it certainly doesn’t match up to Iglesias’ Apollonian baritone, but the corn’s gold kernels don’t offer any reprimand. The music changes, but he keeps singing along, stirring the mess of corn and pausing to add fajita seasoning to the chicken.

        By the time Steve’s come back, the stove’s shut off, and he’s singing along to “Hollaback Girl.” Steve’s staring at him with a mixture of fondness and bemusement clear on his face, and Bucky can’t help grinning over at him, wiggling his hips and raising his eyebrows. As intended, Steve bursts out laughing and steals away the spoon Bucky was using as a microphone, but he gets approximately three words in before they’re both gasping out laughter.

        “Shit,” Bucky gasps out. “We’re terrible.”

        “Yeah,” Steve agrees, cutting off an undignified snort.

        He grins, easy and bright, and Bucky’s curl up in the reflected light. _So fucking deep._ He can’t really make himself care.

        Later that night, they’re flopped against the couch, Bucky leaning against Steve’s side reading and Steve scratching away at his sketchbook, when Bucky pauses, lips pursing to the side. He’s been staring at the same paragraph for the past five minutes, struck by a familiar phrase.

        “Hey, Steve?” he asks.

        “Mm?” Steve hums back, pencil scritching against the paper.

        Bucky hesitates, then, realizing he doesn’t know what he wants to say next. _“Remember that comment you made like a month and a half ago? Before all this? That one little comment about HYDRA being too easy? Yeah. I was just thinking about that.” he thinks scathingly. That’ll be great._

        “Yeah, Buck?” Steve prompts, having set down his pencil and turned his head to look down at Bucky’s head.

        “Nevermind,” Bucky mutters before catching himself and adding, “I was just gonna’ ask if you wanted to go out for breakfast tomorrow morning, but you’ve got a meeting with Fury, don’t you?”

        Steve groans, purposefully dramatic, and grins down at Bucky. There’s a tightness near his eyes, though, that suggests he doesn’t really believe Bucky’s diversion.

        “Don’t remind me,” he gripes, “but afterward?”

        “Deal,” Bucky promises, nestling back down against Steve’s side.

        He forces the tension out of his body and HYDRA out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF
> 
> So, since this is so incredibly short and because I don't want to drag out this story any longer than I have to, you get a double update today. Yay.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, and bookmarks; they really are amazingly encouraging and heartening.


	15. Chapter 15

        He wakes up slowly, lingering comfortably in that gold haze of half-awake and half-asleep. He doesn't have to get up, he tells himself. It's not like SHIELD will come knocking on the door to get them. Except, well, they might. But still. He nestles down a little closer to Steve, pressing his nose into the back of the other man's neck. He doesn't want to get up, not yet.

        Unfortunately, Steve's internal alarm is evidently chirruping at him with its usual punctuality, and Bucky huffs a sigh as Steve shifts and then rolls over to face him. He knows he's in no way convincing Steve that he's actually asleep when he's pressing his scowl down into the pillow they're sharing, but it's worth a shot.

        "Hey, Buck," Steve greets in the same soft tone he uses every morning they wake up wrapped around each other.

        It's been two months since they got back from California, and with Natasha out on an extended op, Bucky's spent most of those either in Steve's apartment or around the city with Steve. They switch sometimes, occasionally spending the night at Bucky's, but there's something in Steve's apartment that says "home" infinitely more clearly than any apartment or house Bucky's stayed in over the past ten years. Whether it's the stray cat that always curls up on the fire escape and stares plaintively through the window till one of them sets out a bowl of scraps or the way the morning light is always a gold-tinted stream coming in unobstructed through the windows, Bucky can't say, but it doesn't really matter. It's safe and it's warm and it's Steve.  

        "C'mon, Buck," Steve prompts, voice clear and awake despite the soft tone.

        While he discovered it during their mission overseas, Bucky hadn't quite realized the extent of Steve's ability to wake himself up whenever he decides it's time to get up until they got back stateside. Whatever he decides is going to wake him always wakes him, even if it's just Bucky rolling out of bed to use the bathroom. It was handy on a mission, sure, but right now, Bucky can't help cursing it.

        "No," he grumbles, scrunching down into the blankets and refusing to open his eyes.

        There’s a huff of laughter, and then Steve's hands slide over Bucky's chest and sides, cool against Bucky's over-warm skin. Somehow, despite Steve’s superheated core temp, his hands are always just this side of frosty. When asked, apparently, the doctors had no answers.

        "We've got to get ready," Steve reminds, as if Bucky doesn't know.  

        When that elicits no reply, Steve falls silent for a brief moment, and Bucky has a hazy thought of victory before they're lips pressed into his collarbone. His eyes snap open, and he glares half-heartedly at the innocent smile Steve's directing his way.

        "Cheat," Bucky mutters. "Fine, I'm up."

        Smiling, Steve shimmies to the side of the bed and stretches with a crackle of joints. As always, Bucky watches through half-open eyes, certain he'll never get used to seeing Steve and knowing that he’s all his.  

        "Pancakes?" Steve offers, holding his hand out as if Bucky needs help out of bed.

        "Sure," Bucky answers, taking the hand anyway. "You go shower, I'll get started."

        It’s a normal routine for them; Bucky mixing up breakfast while Steve showers and then passing it off for him to finish while Bucky hops in. Between their combined efforts, they’re sitting down at the counter to small towers of golden-brown pancakes in about twenty minutes. Bucky leans against Steve’s shoulder, more awake than when Steve’s internal alarm first dinged at two AM but just as reluctant to actually admit that he’s awake and has to do things now.

        As usual, Steve leans a little back and interlaces their fingers.

        Breakfast, mostly due to Bucky’s lifelong feud with morning, is quiet except for the scrape of their forks on their plates and the quiet mewing of the stray outside the window. Steve stares in that direction thoughtfully for a few moments, syrup dripping off the bite of pancake speared on his fork.

        “We should probably ask someone to take care of her while we’re gone,” he remarks.

        “She’s a stray,” Bucky points out. “She can take care of herself.”

        “But she’s gotten used to us,” Steve objects.

        “Then this’ll be good practice for her not getting dependent on us,” Bucky maintains firmly. “Now come on, you’re going to make us late.”

        Steve hesitates a moment longer, and Bucky knows he’s going to be seeing that cat installed in the apartment before Christmas, but he doesn’t really mind. Steve wouldn’t be Steve if he didn’t feel the need to take care of every stray that passed within thirty yards of him. Right now, though, they do actually need to get ready and leave.

        They don’t fully suit up in the apartment - Captain America’s stripes and star are hardly inconspicuous - but they pull on the tight under-layers and loose pants over top. Well, Bucky's are loose. He takes one look at Steve's and immediately chokes on a laugh. The pants fit, in the loosest sense of the word, but they hug his ass like spanx, and cinch right at his ankles.

        "What?" Steve demands, catching Bucky's gaze.

        "Those from before the serum?' Bucky teases, grinning.

        Steve flushes a little, glancing down at his pants before looking back up at Bucky with an embarrassed little half smile.

        "They're comfy," he explains, half-apologetically.

        Bucky laughs and kisses him lightly before tossing on his jacket and nodding towards the door. Steve scoops up his SHIELD like an oversized frisbee and hooks the straps over his shoulders before heading out as well.  

        Thankfully, SHIELD has a sedan waiting for them at the curb, driven by some anonymous agent, and they slide comfortably into the plush back seat.  It's a roomy seat, but they're neither one small men, and their knees knock comfortably together, fingertips just brushing on the leather seat.

        Once inside SHIELD, they pause to pull on their full suits, Steve dropping the shield's carrying case in the locker room, but then they're trotting up the stairs to the quinjet waiting on the roof. In deference to SHIELD, they don't link hands or press too tightly  to each other, but they don't go out of their way to hide anything. They fall onto the bench seat with the same closeness as always, sides of their legs in an incidentally perfect line.

        It's a quiet flight,and the comm doesn't click on till they're about an hour out.

        "We're approaching our destination," the pilot announces. "Director Fury asked that you read through these files before we land."

        The screen on the fore end of the cabin lights up, files popping up and open. Bucky huffs a sigh, but they both stand and walk over to the screen to see what’s in the files.

        They're all on Zola.

        Steve's hand nudges Bucky's, fingers sliding loosely in between his so that just their knuckles hook, and Bucky realizes with a start how tightly wound his muscles have become in a single instant. He glances sharply at Steve, tensed and ready to snap that he’s fine, but there's no pity or condescension on Steve's face. He's facing straight ahead, only a worried frown evident on his brow.  Swallowing, Bucky forces himself to turn and study the files as well. Steve isn’t the only one on this mission, after all.

        He does, however, let himself skim over for the important information: the base Zola's at that's about to get blown to bits, a direct train route to another that's already surrounded by SHIELD operatives, key locations for hijacking said train.  

        "So, we're going to just hop on top of the train?" Bucky asks, skeptical.

        "What's the worst that could happen?" Steve answers with a cheeky grin.

        Bucky snorts and shakes his head .

        "Beginning descent," the pilot announces, and Steve disconnects the tablet installed below the screen before they return to their seats.

        "Really," Steve muses absently, "it doesn't seem that bad."

        Bucky shrugs, leaning back against the jet wall.

        "You know I'll follow," he remarks.

        The corner of Steve's lips pulls up in warm smile  and he leans his shoulder to press it into Bucky's. They're quiet for the rest of the slow glide into the Austrian airport  and disembark long enough to meet the crew going with them.

        It’s a three piece set: demolitions, communications, and transportation. They're easygoing operatives who greet Steve with a collective laugh at the patriotic suit and a genial respect. Bucky gets a grin and nod, but something about his stance seems to put them off a little. It's normal, if he's honest.  Even without a rifle slung over his shoulder and heavy black combat gear packed onto his frame, he has a penchant for projecting hostility. Now, with a frown set firm on his face and his shoulders tight as a trip wire from reading up their upcoming mission for the past hour or so,  he imagines he looks about as friendly as a riled up Doberman.

        "So, we're just gonna' hop on this train and take the good ol' doc back for SHIELD?" the transport specialist queries, tapping calloused fingers against the tabletop.

        Steve shrugs with his regular nonchalance.  

        "Seems like the easiest route," he answers.

        The transport specialist, Reyes, shrugs and glances around at her team before turning back to Steve.

        "Sounds good to us," she agrees.  

        With that, they're headed onto a much smaller, ricketier version of the quinjet that brought Steve and Buck over. It's a dented silver rather than the matte black of the jet. Inside, the plane is just as wobbly as its exterior, and the crew braces themselves against each other and the walls  and grins. _If you can't fix it, might as well enjoy the ride,_ Bucky thinks drily.

        He's not sure they quite succeed in enjoying it, especially given the whoops as they drop out via parachutes to land on the snow-laden stretch  below. They tumble into the snow with grins and guffaws, and Bucky  can't help smiling as well, even if its only a pale flicker of his usual grin. Adjusting his rifle on his back, he falls in beside Steve and falls silent while the rest of the team tease and taunt each other quietly. Steve doesn't spare him a second glance, too used to the quiet shut-down of Bucky on a mission, but he can feel the glances the others are shooting his way; they're wary, curious, and a little put-off by his straight-faced solemnity.

        They trudge to a cliff, and Bucky half wants to crack a joke about lemmings, but one glance from the precipice and he decides it’s a little too close to home. The others give Steve quietly skeptical looks as they survey the cliff themselves, but none object more verbally than a few grumbles. They have over an hour to wait, and while the comm specialist relays information between the quinjet and the cliff.

        “Your Cap’s a little nuts, yeah?” the demolitionist remarks when Bucky hovers a moment beside him.

        Bucky feels his lips twitch at the corners.

        “He does wear the American flag on a daily basis,” he agrees.

        The demolitionist laughs and nods.

        “Point,” he agrees.

        Strolling back to where Steve’s standing, staring down at the railroad far below, Bucky knocks their shoulders together, and Steve glances up with a smile.

        “Ready?” Bucky asks.

        “‘Course,” Steve scoffs. “What, you chickening out?”

        "Yeah, ‘cause I'm the one who was too scared to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island," Bucky scoffs.

        "I would've thrown up!" Steve protests.

        "Yeah, yeah," Bucky grins. "Punk."

        Steve shakes his head and glances back when the comm specialist calls out a twelve minute warning.

        "Jerk," he mutters, knocking their shoulders together as he turns away.

        With that settled, he turns back to the rest of the crew, taking the zip handle Reyes passes him.  He's all business when he turns back, and Bucky steps to the side and back, accepting his own handle as he does.

        "Alright," Steve declares, hooking his handle onto the line, "we've only got about a ten second window. You miss that, you're bugs on a windshield."

        "Mind the gap," the demolitionist mutters, shifting his weight between his feet.

        "Now," Reyes announces. "Now!"

        Steve throws himself forward, and for a split second, Bucky sees him crashing into the cliff face and breaking into nothingnesss, but then the train's racing around the corner, aimed at exactly the spot Steve's going to land. He doesn't let himself think tooo much more before he's zipping down after him. They drop onto the roof, crouched low to avoid getting knocked from the roof, while the trio heads to to the front of the train, Bucky and Steve clamber down to break into the car on which they're standing.

        Steve yanks the door open and drops in, scooting forward to allow Bucky in,  and they both pause a moment to glance around the car. It's underwhelming, to say the least. Given the last HYDRA tech they've witnessed, Bucky had expected something other than plain metal shelves and hard rifle cases.

        "That’s it?" he asks, incredulous.

        "Yeah, little under-"  

        Whatever Steve was going to say, he's cut off by a pulse of blue light throwing him backwards into the car's wall. He flings his shield forward to take the brunt of the blow, and Bucky dives behind one of the shelves, yanking his gun into his hands. There's a - _You've gotta' be shitting me_. There's a robot, clanky and stiff, clattering down the main aisle of the car. Bucky shoots, aiming for the joints around the neck or shoulder, but that seems to only act like gnats against a horse's hide; it redirects its laser-like blasts towards him, searing through the case previously guarding his head. Bucky swears, dropping onto his heels  in a crouch.

        Steve hasn't reappeared from where he disappeared into the next car, and Bucky pauses a moment to release a slow breath. Becca's his sole benefactor, even if what he has is piddly enough to hardly warrant a single person getting it. Aside from a few things that are half-his, half-Nat's anyways, it'll all go to her. He told Steve he loves him before they jumped, more or less. Satisfied, he twists and stands to shoot straight at the robot still thudding jerkily towards them.

        The bullets do little more than ricochet, and there's fire searing along his ribs when a blue pulse glances off them, but before he can do much else, there's a great metal disc whizzing over his head and slamming into the chest plate of the Iron Man parody. It topples over, and Bucky pulls himself to his feet as Steve retrieves his shield.

        "I had 'im on the ropes," Bucky mutters.

        "Yeah, sure you did," Steve answers, grinning over at him.

        Bucky shakes his head at the grin pulling over Steve's lips and donders how the hell he ended up here. Seven years ago, when he signed up for the army, he hadn't exactly planned to be fighting Nazi robots with Captain America. He doesn’t exactly mind the surprise.

        It's while he's thinking that that everything goes toppling into hell in a very cold, very large handbasket. Steve's hand grabs onto his arm, pushes him back, there's a pulse and they're both flung apart. Bucky grimaces, landing hard on his side, and seeks out Steve immediately. He’s flat out, face contorted in a not-quite-conscious grimace of pain. The shield's a foot from Bucky, six from Steve, and the robot's up and walking again. It's a snap decision, a poor choice made without thought. He grabs the shield, braces it against his body and aims over it. It doesn't work, of course. Before he can call out, he's flying through the air, shield gone, cold whistling around him.

        By dumb luck, he catches hold of an outer bar, feet dangling over the chasm five hundred feet deep. _I'm going to die_ , he thinks with startlingly clarity. There's no rapid-fire montage of his life, no weepy soundtrack about the good dying young - just that sharp, crystalline fact. Then Steve's clinging to side of the train, reaching out for him and begging him to catch hold. The metal gives, Bucky flings out his arm - too late. He's falling, falling a thousand feet, and he's going to die, and he never even got to say goodbye and -  

 

 

           it goes black.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and voila! Auvoir, Bucky <3


	16. Chapter 16

          It’s cold.

          That's the first thought he has: a plaintive whine demanding to know why Steve’s radiator-warmth isn’t tucked against his chest. Instinctively, he reaches out to his left, feeling for Steve’s familiar shape, and his skin slides stickily across metal. His eyes snap open, muscles jolting into rigor with the adrenaline suddenly flushing through his veins. His shoulder is on fire. Biting down, he manages to stifle the scream ripping up his throat, but it’s with the taste of blood in his mouth.

          “-wearing off,” a white-coated woman announces from his left.

          “Sir, if the anesthetic wears off, he’ll be in agony. We need to either wait till he’s unconscious or find stronger barbiturates,” the thin man beside her explains.

          “Such as?” a third voice intones boredly.

          The adrenaline-quickened blood coursing through him freezes of a sudden, and Bucky forces himself to grit his teeth and survey the room. It’s agony, edges of his vision blurred and distorted, but he finally catches sight of Zola’s face taking up a large screen to his right. He’s just as livid and pursed-mouth as he was two months ago, and Bucky can’t hold off the shudder that shakes whole-body through him. Zola turns to him with a small smile that’s more a tensing of his lips than an actual grin.

          “The procedure has already started, Sergeant Barnes,” he explains, clipped.  “Do try not to interfere.”

          That’s enough for Bucky to jerk up in an attempt to grab the round-faced scientist. The broad strap across his chest aborts the movement, digging into his chest and bicep, but Zola steps back from whatever camera he’s using nonetheless.

          “Sir, the anesthetic?” the woman prompts.

          “Carry on without it,” Zola snips. “Order only comes from pain, after all.”

          The last part is said in a tone dripping of condescension and mockery, but Bucky doesn’t have long to contemplate it – something red-hot and dagger-sharp is slicing into his shoulder, and the world rapidly fades out to red-edged black.

          He wakes with a bruised feeling sprawling through his shoulder, chest, and back, but this time at least, he knows where he is – roughly. _HYDRA base, probably back-up, still in Austria?_ It’s hardly definitive, and it does nothing to answer why Zola was video-calling them instead of standing right in the room, or, better yet, being tossed into a high-security SHIELD cell. He tries not to focus on that.

          From where he’s lying, he can see the two scientists standing down by his feet, conversing in low tones with heavy frowns creasing their brows. With their dark hair and narrow faces, they almost look like siblings, and Bucky wonders how that happened: does HYDRA recruit entire families at a time? Keeping a careful eye on them, Bucky tries to wriggle free of the strap holding him down. It doesn’t budge. _Fucking great._

          He pauses, loosening his whole body, and cranes his neck to check out the dull, heavy pain radiating through his left like he got hit by a truck. There’s – there’s an arm there. It’s metallic silver and traced with interlocking lines like some high-tech jigsaw puzzle. Swallowing tightly, Bucky forces the acidic taste of vomit down from the back of his throat. He can’t see it perfectly, but there’s a heavy red line of skin bunched up around where the metal plating extends over his shoulder and trap, like someone simply pushed the metal forward until the skin gave and crumpled up in a seam.

          “Ah, he’s awake,” one of the scientists, the man, remarks.

          They come like a joined unit around to his left side, the man cradling a clipboard in the crook of his elbow. The woman smiles benevolently down at him.

          “Good morning,” she greets. “How are you feeling?”

          He grits his teeth and glares, every nerve in his body firing with the signal to get the hell out. They’re unarmed, scientists, practically civilians – it would take him no time at all to knock them out and run. Unfortunately, there’s a broad, heavy-duty strap standing in his way.

          “Zola said to go ahead and start the wipes,” the woman mutters to her partner, body posed in a manner to block the words from Bucky. It doesn’t work.

          The man looks uncertain, shifting his glasses up on his nose as if that’ll help him find his humanity better. Finally, though, he relents to his sister’s steady gaze and nods jerkily.

          “Alright. I’ll get the guards,” he agrees and scurries out of sight.

          The woman turns back to Bucky, then, with that same small smile on her pale lips. There’s something predatory in the curl and the cool way her eyes skim over Bucky’s exposed body.

          “You are going to be such an achievement,” she hums cheerfully. “The perfect soldier, and we’re the ones to bring you to life. I never thought I’d be a part of this.”

          “Fuck you,” Bucky snarls, straining futilely against the restraints.

          She laughs, the smile dropping down another degree on the thermometer. Before she can reply, though, a door past Bucky’s sightlines opens, and the heavy treads of two men follow the soft patter of the doctor’s in. They’re big guys, dressed in tac gear like they just got pulled out of the field, and their hands hold their guns perfectly steady as the doctors unstrap Bucky’s chest and legs. His first instinct is to bolt, to push past and get as far away as he can, but he manages to tamp down on that reflex. At this point, all that’d earn him is a bullet in the back.

          The guards flank him, prodding him to follow the two doctors out of the room and down a dank hallway. His legs aren’t nearly as jellylike as the last time he received Zola’s administrations, but there’s something off about how his body moves – like he hit a sudden growth spurt in the night. Once again, he pushes that confusion away and back into the growing mess of shadowy fears writhing in the back of his mind. _It’ll be okay. Steve’ll come. He’ll come._ He repeats the reassurance over and over and fights to keep from looking as lost and scared as he feels.

          That works for a time. Then, he’s being pushed in through a new door, and there’s the chair from Azzano, and it’s a lost cause.  He struggles against the hold the guards get on his arms, lashes out – but it’s useless, because they merely tighten their grips and frog-march him to the chair, shove him in, and lock in the restraints that go over his wrists. He’s still fighting against them, new prosthetic straining against the straps without the irritating chafing of his flesh-and-bone wrist. He can feel the pressure, which startles him, but it doesn’t hurt.

          Before he can call out or object any more, there are metal pads sliding down to close around his head and - and for a minute, a century, an hour, he is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for not getting a chapter posted yesterday! We're starting Tech for ballet, and I just kinda' spaced it off. So, double update to make up for it!


	17. Chapter 17

       He is woken and thawed and woken and thawed, and he long ago lost track of the time between each. It doesn't matter, not usually. Instead, it's just what the mission is, who is supposed to die, that matters.  

       Anything beyond that, anything that others may call 'memory' is kept carefully behind a broad wall of safety glass that lets him watch every once and a while but manages to seal out any and all sound, till he's doing little more than watching the muted colors of a pantomime in his own mind. He knows he once knew the figures he sees in these scenes, but he can neither name them nor say what they meant to him in that once-upon-a-time. He can only watch .

       He isn’t curious, because machines don’t feel, but every once in a while, he finds himself tapping the plexiglass and checking for weak spots, trying to see into the light that glows briefly through cracks before they get sealed and polished with _wipe him_ and frosted lightning. Then, he watches with detached interest as his hand snaps a woman’s neck, his gun empties into a roomful of men, his lips press against a faceless other’s. None of them linger except for a silent moment of half-fogged video. He doesn’t try to keep them, not usually. When he does, the few times he’s tried, he’s left with a fresh, hard coat of white paint over the scratched glass, reflective and glaring.

       There’s a woman who causes it one time. Scarlet hair like a banner against the parched desert beige, She’s guarding the target, body a shield, and he knows the exact trajectory the bullet will take to curve through her skull and break open the target’s frontal plate. That knowledge does nothing to silence the strange, panicked voice screaming STOP in his head. It’s twisted and raw, like it’s been screaming into a void for eons, but he thinks he hears a little of himself in it. As usual, he pushes it away. This time, it pushes back.

       The rifle shifts, the trigger is pulled. The target’s dead, but the woman’s not. He packs up, turns away, and leaves her lying on the ground with blood red as her hair spilling into the sand. From a distance, he can hear the sounds of an approaching car.

       “Why didn’t you kill her?” Control asks, voice patient and angry.

       There are a dozen reasons he could give, but he doesn’t think citing the jumbled voice in his head as his advisor is a good idea. Instead, he responds mechanically that it was unnecessary, didn’t fall into the _necessary violence_ outlined in the file.

       It's the wrong answer.

       "Wipe him," Control orders sharply, and that scarlet banner is smoothed over with the same polish as the rest of the filled-in cracks.

       He doesn't poke at that one. The polish left a slight smear there, like a little too much was used and it obscured a bit more than the intended hole. Any time he looks, the image beyond is distorted, too blurry to be recognized beyond a ripple of red and beige.  

       There's another mission, another target , and he shoots them without a thought. The voice doesn't reappear; something seems to have finally beaten it into submission. He doesn't miss it.  

       He shoots an archer in Budapest. The report doesn't show it because he wasn't the target, and no one else saw a flash of red as his bleeding body was dragged into safety. What's a missing corpse in a battlefield? He returns to Control with a finished mission and no questions, and they put him to sleep again. When he wakes, it's to  an open file and Control. Something's wrong, but he doesn't ask, doesn't push. Just because Control is there to hand him the file personally doesn't mean anything - except that it does.  

       "We have a new mission for you," Control explains. "This is very important."

      _When isn't it?_ he wants to ask, but can't, of course. His work has been invaluable, has _“shaped the century”_ \- it's always important. He doesn't mention that, though, just accepts the file Control hands him.

       "Not only is he a level four, but he's surrounding by level five and above," Control continues. "Avoid them, but make sure this is seen. We want a statement."

       He nods robotically, skimming through the basic stats of the man, his habits. They're predictable in the same way every spy's habits are: just random and unsettled enough to  fall into short, variegated patterns. It isn't until he flips to the next page, the one with a list of known associates, their photos, and their brief biographies -  

       Scarlet. Red blood seeping into a dusty land. Hair red as - _Don’t you dare do this to me_ \- blue flowers on white pottery - laughter -

       “The Widow isn’t a concern,” Control is saying, “but avoid the Captain. We don’t need-”

       He never hears the end of the sentence, because he’s looked down to the next photo, and he can’t hear a thing. The voice is back, and it is screaming and clawing and - the glass gives a great, heaving shudder and falls into place. The silence is somehow louder than the voice has ever been.

       “I expect confirmation in twelve hours,” Control declares.

       He nods.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you guys for sticking with me and bearing through this shit heap. 
> 
>  
> 
> ...I'm pretty sure that's not how that verb's supposed to be used. whatever.


	18. Chapter 18

            For all that the aides in the vault cower when he so much as swallows, he isn’t often used to frighten people directly. His job is in the shadows, as a flitting bit of smoke between the moonlight that kills and maims like some unseen demon. He is feared because of his lack of existence, for the intangibility that is the Winter Soldier.

            Which doesn’t explain why he is standing in the middle of a busy street, an armored SUV lurching towards him.

            It was in the mission parameters, included in the clause that Control wants “a statement.” That doesn’t prevent that itch crawling up his spine and nestling deep in the base of his neck like a spider in a niche. _Watch out,_ it whispers in a feminine tone entirely different from the panicked screaming that sometimes shows up. _Ghosts don’t come back from sunlight._

            He pushes it away, aims, fires, steps out of the way of the black carcass flipping end over end at him. He lets it settle as he walks forward, already adjusting to confirm the target’s termination - but there’s a hole where a body should be, edges still glowing red-hot.

            He’s gone as fast as the target, sliding into the inky embrace of shadows caught in the overcast city. They aren’t as dark as he’d like them to be, too diluted by their constant stasis to provide the coverage that night or a storm would, but he has something of a penchant for invisibility when he desires it. Now, when Control delivered insufficient information and his mark has vanished, is certainly a time he desires it.

            There’s no anger, of course, even as a line of light pulses behind the glass wall. He was not given enough information. He will make do. He has not become this successful because of his inability to adapt.

            The mark doesn't return to his home or to the SHIELD fortress. Instead, he shows up just outside the associate’s - the one whose face had sent paralytic tremors shuddering through the Soldier's nerves - apartment. Scouting out the rooftop across from the apartment, he waits until he has a sure sighting on the mark, laying down on his stomach and propping up his rifle  on the edge of the building.

            Three shots to confirm termination, and then there's a new figure entering the associate's apartment, and the Soldier takes his cue to leave; his work here is done.  

            It's only moments before he hears shattering glass and the thud of a heavy frame smacking into a cement roof , and then he's really moving. The associate: super-soldier, enhanced physical and mental abilities - no matter the Soldier's own skills, he has no reason to dawdle here in order to test his strength. No, he is a ghost, not a circus act. So he runs, the super-soldier's feet thudding like drums behind him, and it's only the whisk of skin against metal that has the Soldier twisting and flinging out the arm to catch the associate’s shield. It's heavy and hard, and before he has really thought it over, the Soldier flings it back at the blonde and drops down to scale down the wall before the man has collected himself.

            "Mission report," Control demands once he's come to the vault to find the Soldier sitting and waiting in his chair.  

            "Target terminated," the Soldier answers dully. "Death confirmed at SHIELD hospital at oh-three-hundred."

            Control nods absently, gaze averted and thoughts clearly elsewhere. The Soldier doesn't press it to ask why it was the statement they needed, who the associate is, why SHIELD is killing itself from the inside out.

            "Good," Control finally declares. "Make sure he's ready for his next mission - don't bother sending him under yet. We might need him soon.”

            This last bit is addressed to the aides and doctors surrounding them, and the Soldier maintains his blank-eyed stare. His hearing, however, is not nearly so faulty as they sometimes seem to think. To have another mission so soon after the first isn’t unheard-of at all, but it is...unusual.

            They slide a needle into the vein on the back of his hand, and he leans back into the chair as expected, blank eyes still staring ahead. This, at least, is normal. Regardless of the mission, they have to give him sustenance at some point, and he can't remember the last time he had anything other than this liquid blend of basic nutrients. Perhaps he never has. It would hardly surprise him.

            The line of light pulsing against the glass is stronger now, reminiscent of lightning trapped in a fish tank, and he forces himself not to touch it. He doesn't need to know. It isn't pertinent to the mission. He repeats this silently until they remove the IV and haul him up to his feet and push him towards the next room.

            It's the STRIKE team that does it, Rumlow nudging him along with a hand on his shoulder while the rest of them eye him like a caged wolf, hands hovering over their guns as if that'll protect them should he decide to fight back. It’d be laughable if he remembered how.

            Rumlow is the one who unstraps his gear and helps tug it off. He’s the only one unafraid of being this close to the Soldier - or perhaps the only one who’s learned to hide his fear. He’s not gentle, but he isn’t as rough as the rifle butts that shove him into a stall. They don’t turn on a shower head, of course, despite the ones lining the wall. It’s a hose they turn on him, the pressure biting and harsh against his bare skin, and he stands with his arms hanging limply by his sides and turns when they tell him to and otherwise doesn’t move.

            His hair, once wet, clings to his cheeks and neck like leeches dangling from his skin, and not even Rumlow bothers to brush it away. Instead, he’s dressed hurriedly, skin still a little damp against the heavy cloth, and shepherded back into the vault. Almost as soon as they arrive, the STRIKE team is leaning in to listen to their comms before bolting in an orderly rush from the room.

            He waits, as he always does. Out of stasis, he can still drop into an open-eyed doze that ticks away the hours in a noteless blur. He doesn’t know how much later it is that they wake him and order him to report to Control, but the sky is dark when he ducks out the door. Why he knows how to get to Control’s home, he doesn’t know, can’t remember ever learning the way, and the glass is too unsteady for him to press and rifle through for the memory.

            He slides through the study’s window, pulls it closed noiselessly and pauses; there are voices downstairs. He steps carefully around the broad wooden desk and hovers beside the bookcases. He’s spent more than a few minutes lingering over these shelves before, studying untouchable books while Control hosts guests or converses with his wife or does anything else that prevents a supposedly-fictional assassin from being acceptable. This time, though, he freezes beside one of the shelves that holds a small, ornamented knife propped on a polished wooden stand. The voice starts up before he clamps down on it, leaving only a strangled groan behind.

            It’s...his. The thought twists funnily in his chest, because he doesn’t have things. The body he wears, the metal arm hanging by his side - it’s not his. He doesn’t _own_. But, somehow, he knows, with more certainty than anything in his shifting world, that this is his.

            The earth tilts, dropping the knife into his hand, and it slides easily from there to one of the pockets on the side of his pants. Below him, the voices fade, and he finds his way downstairs, into the kitchen. Training moves a beretta from his thigh holster onto the surface of the dining room table. Control acts like his brain is enough to terminate any potential threat, but it’s not true - at least when faced with a weapon wont to malfunction. He’s good with a gun, though, and a bullet to the brain will stop even the Soldier.

            Control wanders in wearing the sheep’s wool of a benign uncle and statesman. He looks half-surprised when he sees the Soldier sitting at his dining room table, even though he has to have known that the Soldier would be there. He pauses to answer his housekeeper before offering milk in a sort of strange, condescending test. The Soldier won’t get any whatever way he responds, so he doesn't. Control shrugs, mosies over with his own glass and sits.

            "The time table has moved. Our window is limited: two targets, level six," he announces, all business.

            The Soldier waits for the rest of the information he’ll need to terminate said targets. They don’t generally send him into the field without a few parameters unless the target is below a level four. Even then, there’s always some sort of purpose for the kill.

            “They already cost me Zola,” Control continues, something tight in the way the corners of his lips turn down. “I want confirmed death in ten hours.”

            Before he can continue, the housekeeper returns, jovial tone a little apologetic and a little unsurprised.

            “Sorry, Mr. Pierce,” she apologizes before freezing, face dropping in half-slack fear, “I-I forgot my phone.”

            Control sighs, long-suffering, and sets down his glass before plucking up the beretta and aiming it at her.

            “Oh, Renata,” he sighs, “I really wish you would’ve knocked.”

            Two shots to confirm death. The Soldier watches Control, unbothered; there are still plenty of bullets to put him down if Control needs to.

            “Where were we?” Control asks rhetorically as he sets the gun back down and takes another sip. “Right. STRIKE One will be there if necessary, and they’ll take care of disposal. Report back to the 9th Street base after completion. Now, the Widow’s just a spy, she’s not going to be any real trouble; the Captain on the other hand - he’s the one to watch out for.”

            The Soldier nods mutely, muting the voice that pricks at the back of his mind but not quite ignoring it; he doesn’t question Control, but that doesn’t mean he is always right; he has enough on his plate to occasionally lack the combat information the Soldier knows. He’ll review the information later, when he is waiting for dawn to come and the targets to peek out of their rabbit holes.

            Control dismisses him, and as he’s slipping out a window and padding on silent feet across the lawn, the knife burns like a hot coal in his pocket. He doesn’t question it, just feels the light fire-burn against his thigh while listening silently to the long and violent history of the Black Widow, as iterated helpfully by the firm, feminine voice in his head. While not being so much as to completely disregard the Captain, there’s plenty there to shift his priorities. The Widow needs to be taken out first, then her bulkier comrade.

            The Soldier has never had much of an opinion on the passage of time: it passes, is all. Thus, sitting on the roof of a car garage to wait for the STRIKE team to present themselves is nothing more than a normal event. The hours pass as they pass, and he waits till they are done. It's perhaps one of the most valuable skills the Soldier has, or at least one of HYDRA's favorites: there is rarely the trouble witht he Soldier that they have with other operatives sent on stakeouts or told to wait for more information. It occasionally bleeds over into the other agents when he's working with a team, but their silence is always different - twitchy, restless, and unnerved by the unmoving mass beside them. The Soldier doesn't flicker, doesn't blink, in his vigils: he sits, he watches, and he waits.

             "Christ, you been up here all night?" Rumlow asks when he arrives, chafing his hands together in the brisk morning air.

            The Soldier doesn't reply, doesn't have to: Rumlow's ruffled up about something and bitching about the Soldier's "complete lack of any fucking common sense" is as good a vent as any. They load into an armored van, black, of course, and the rest of the STRIKE team preps and grumbles amongst themselves as they drive. They're all sporting fresh cuts and bruises, ones that can't be more than a day or so old. They already cost me Zola, Control had said. _What else?_ the Soldier wants to ask, but he clamps down on that query and pushes it far, far back.  

            "Don't know if Pierce noticed this," one of the agents complains, "but Cap's a lil' stronger than your average assassin."

            "You ever seen someone best the Winter Soldier?" Rumlow asks drily, standing and walking across the back of the van with the Soldier's mask dangling from one hand.  

            There's grudging silence from the agent who spoke up, his gaze flicking over the Soldier and lingering on the glint of the metal arm.

            "Didn't think so," Rumlow mutters smugly. "Hold up your hair."

            The Soldier does as he's told, left hand pulling his chin-length locks up easily into a messy clump. The mask slides on, form-fitted, and clipping shut at the base of his skull. He drops his hair and pulls on the black goggles over top. They do little other than obscure his own eyes; he can still see perfectly well to shoot, but Control has a certain insistence on how things are to be done when there's a chance the Soldier will be seen. He doesn't pretend to understand it, but it wouldn’t change anything if he did: they have never cared whether he understands anything so long as his incomprehension doesn’t jeopardize the mission.

            Rumlow returns to his seat for the rest of the ride, but it’s only a few minutes before he’s pressing a hand to the comm in his ear and swearing quietly.

            “Shit. They’re on the move,” he tells the rest of the team. “Best bet’ll be Roosevelt Bridge.”

            The driver swings onto a hard right, and the team sways and jostles with the shift in momentum. From there, it's little more than routine.

            The Soldier slips out the side door, takes a jump and lands on the roof. Sitwell's the first to be pulled out, flung carelessly at the street over. Even without the traffic, he'd be dead from the impact. He's little more than a warm-up, though: the real challenge is the trio remaining in the sedan. The Widow misses his shot, pushes the other two out of the way, and the brakes slam, flipping the Soldier off. His fingers scrape against the concrete, micro-shudders vibrating up his arm as he releases his fingertips' hold in the concrete and lets the prosthetic whir back into alignment.  It's easy to get back to the van, wait for the chance to pull over before the rest of the team piles out.

            One hands him a rifle, and he snaps at them to take care of the Captain; the Widow's still his priority. She's clever, tucking into shelter that hides her shadow as well as it hides her form. It’s this that leads her to actually hitting him, and when he stands back up, an unexpected surge of anger holds down the trigger.  It's not that he's never been shot before; his body holds the memories of each wound even if he doesn't. But there's something there, something familiar and irritating prickling up his skin like spiders crawling just below the dermis. He knows he should be able to outthink her, knows that they've done this dance before - but no matter how hard he pushes at the glass, it's not budging over this particular spot; instead, it just seems to worsen, to blur and distort the fragments of red he can see just beyond. It's with this in mind that the Soldier drops down to ground level.  

            He can hear her voice, breathless, into a phone, and he pauses, slowing his silent steps before rolling a palm-sized grenade under the car from which the noise it coming. In hindsight, it was far too easy. Her thighs are around his neck, garrott catching on the flesh-and-blood hand in an instant. As soon as she's knocked away, she's off running again, a straight line that doesn't make sense a when there are so many civilians around to use as cover. He shoots, hitting her through a car, but he knows she's not dead - knows it didn’t hit -

            A train slams into him.

            The Captain fights with the skill and strength of the nation's best soldier, and for the first time in his memory, the Soldier is evenly matched. It's startling but not enough to distract him. When his gun's gone, he pulls out a knife, when the knife's gone, he pulls out the arm. Then he's being flipped, barely catching himself, and the Captain's looking at him like a man who's just had his heart ripped out before his eyes - the Soldier knows, though he's not sure why -  and whispering an unfamiliar name that clicks sharply against the glass in the Soldier's mind, like a magnet pulled to its opposite across the barrier.

            "Who the hell is Bucky?" the Soldier demands, his voice rough and low.

            The Captain doesn't answer, just stares at him with hollow blue eyes that pull at the muscles around the Soldier's ribs like corset strings, tugging in and in and - he pulls up his gun, aims - and gets bowled over hard into the concrete. He doesn't linger doesn't let his befuddled mind, clouding up as if with phosphorous, betray him into staying here. He bolts, stumbling in a direct line to the old bank in which they've been storing him recently. The technicians and scientists give him terrified stares when he shoves the door in and stalks straight to the chair. They don't quite settle when he sits down, retaining that twitchy, uneasy air they keep whenever he's in their presence.  

            The glass is cracking, great chunks dangling from their slightest edges, and he wants to scream, wants to beg answers, demand them at gunpoint. He wants to know why his head is ringing with the name the man of the bridge said, wants to know - but he doesn't, can just watch as silent scenes play out like old films in the back of his mind, pressing to be brought forth. There's a man - the man, the one on the bridge - who's smiling at an unseen companion in a drizzly dark knight. His mouth opens on a noiseless laugh, and the Soldier wants to know why - why was he smiling? Why does he look so happy when on the bridge, he looked like little more than a wraith? There's another, a faceless woman pressing something into his hand - a knife, the one he took from Control's shelf? There's a train, and a white, icy plummet down down down into darkness. Dimly, he's aware that he's lashed out, that the technician that was sitting, fiddling with the interior of the metal arm is no longer there, but the vault flits in and out of his awareness, overlapping and slipping past the hands - mismatched, and _what the hell's going on? Steve? where's Steve?_ \- and then he's lashing out, but that's not the vault, that's the the - he doesn't know, _why doesn't he-?_

            "Mission report."

            He reaches out for that voice, that familiar one that stays steady even in his most chaotic tumults.

            "Mission report, _now_.”

            There's snow fading along the edges of his vision, melting back from the sickly ochre of the floor and a slarp slap across his face shakes the rest of it away. He looks up, finds Control standing over him, and swallows tightly.

            "The man on the bridge - who was he?" he asks, because maybe Rumlow was right about his self-preservation skills.

            The voice that makes that remark sounds painfully similar to the one that screams half the time he's shooting, and he wonders, for the first time, if this tired, sarcastic tone is what it would sound like in another world.

            "You met him on a mission earlier this week," Control says - lies.

            The Soldier knew him, or at least saw him, before that mission; he may not remember anything beyond the silent flickers he can occasionally watch from within in own mind, but he knows this with the conviction of a sinner at the altar.

            "Your work has been a gift to mankind," Control starts, voice low and placating. "You shaped the century - and I need you to do it one more time."

 _One more time?_ the feminine voice asks, suspicion raising red flags in his mind. The Soldier ignores it, though; all weapons are outdated, eventually. HYDRA's long been due for an upgrade.

            "Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos," Control continues. "Tomorrow morning, we're gonna' give them a push. But  if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

            The Soldier's heard this spiel before, has as little interest in it as he had the first time.  

            "But I knew him," he presses, knowing he’s going to be punished for this, knowing that weapons aren't made with mouths for a reason; it’s a defect that of his that, up till now, has caused little trouble.

            Control’s lips tighten and thin. He turns from the Soldier, finished.

            “Prep him,” he orders sharply.

            A technician protests, but the Soldier doesn’t stay long enough to listen. He knows what’s coming, the inevitable repair of a defective weapon. He leans back, tries to force himself away away away - but it doesn’t stop the shaking in his flesh hand, in that feeble remnant of whatever he was before they made him their fist. He takes the bit, the rubber sour and always tasting of stale vomit, and they turn the chair on and he screams and screams and -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as always, thank you thank you thank you - you guys are really amazing and so supportive, and even when I really am sick of this story, I always appreciate that. You guys are fabulous.
> 
>  
> 
> (also look! the 18th chapter on the 18th hurr hurr hurr)


	19. Chapter 19

        Mission objective: terminate Captain Steven G. Rogers, alias “Captain America”

        Mission objective: prevent interference in launch of PROJECT INSIGHT

        Mission parameters: extreme prejudice

 

        Mission report:

        SHIELD aircraft removed from operation.

        Target Samuel Wilson removed from operation.

        Target Captain Steven Rogers on board Helicarrier C.

        Target engaged.

        Target repeatedly makes attempts to reconcile with “Bucky.” Name unknown to operative.

        Target engaged.

        Operative knocked unconscious.

        Target engaged.

        Operative trapped.

        Mission failed.

        Target re-engages.

        Target continues overtures.

        Target engaged.

        Mission abort. Mission ab-

              _“I’m with you till the end of the line.”_

 

        The fist is pulled back, poised to finish the mission, terminate the target, because he can’t know him, he can’t, he can’t - it _hurts_. But the glass is breaking, shattering, crumbling around them in pieces big as houses, and that light he always sought - that light is hellfire, screaming for his soul.

        The glass gives, caving out in a great cacophony of sound, and he’s left holding on while the target plummets down in a limp, loose fold. It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong, even if trying to figure out why only ends in him flinching away from that searing, reaching hellfire inside his own mind. He lets go, dives and reaches out the arm to grab hold of  the target. He doesn’t know why. ~~a lie. He knows - he knows - he knows _him_.~~

        The target’s heavy, but no greater a weight than others the arm has hefted. He drops him on the shore, waits for a shallow breath to bubble up water and then limps away, dislocated arm pressed as tightly to his chest as he can manage. He needs to set it, to check the rest of his injuries, to report in - no. There is no one to report to. _Not true._ He hesitates, tries to reconfigure the thought into an accurate one.

         _We’re not going back. Ever._ It’s the voice that’s usually screaming, firm, insistent, and still a little shaken. He acknowledges the decision and then firmly pushes the voice back towards the mounds of shattered glass just before the raging flames in the back of his mind. Survival comes first, understanding second. Right now, the flesh arm is useless, and the rest of the body is battered. Even the metal arm is buzzing a little, as if trying to sort itself out.

        He doesn’t return to the base on 9th - it’d be too easy to report in if he was that close, and it isn’t much of a safehouse, anyway. Instead, he heads into the suburbs. There’s a safehouse there, one he went to once with Rumlow’s team. Technically, he’s not supposed to know about it, but with the glass wall down, he has a whole host of memories they’d thought irretrievable. The location of this safehouse is one of the few that slips unobtrusively into his awareness, useful and subtle and nothing like the knifing pain of the others.

        He arrives just before dusk and waits exactly thirty-seven minutes for the sun to sink completely and no lights to flick on before he slips through the basement window. It’s quick work to find a dry shirt and jacket, both nondescript and slightly ill-fitting. His wet combat gear is bundled into a backpack, boots left on, and the empty spaces filled with some of the bars and protein shakes stocking the pantry and fridge. He’s not sure if they’ll work; HYDRA had always been very specific on the fuel used for their weapon, and all he’d ever seen of it was the near-clear tubing funnelling it into his veins.

        There’s no sleeping here: it’s much too obvious a spot for HYDRA to look. He hitches the backpack over his right shoulder, left hand shoved deep in the jacket pocket. There’s at least one tracker in that arm, he knows, and another in the right arm. He needs running water.

        It’s this that has him back at the Potomac, stolen jacket removed, and knife drawn in order to slice cleanly into his forearm. The metal fingers are nimble and deft, locating and removing the tracker from its nest of muscle. It’s tossed into the river, forearm bound tightly in gauze from the safehouse. The metal arm takes more time and care, due in no small part to the irritating tenderness of the flesh arm. In the end, though, the tracker is thrown into the river along with the first, and there's only a few minutes before the next one is tossed as well. Once these minor operations are completed, though, he stands on the bank of the river for too long.

        He is...loose. Directionless. Once upon a time - yesterday - he was pointed at a target and sent forth to kill and destroy. He was the Soldier who never missed a shot and never defied an order. Now, though, now what is he?  

        His lips press together in a frustrated line, and he turns jerkily from the river, tugging the backpack back over his shoulder. It's little use ruminating when he has too little information. Surveillance, then.

        Pulling the backpack higher on his shoulder, he turns and walks into the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, DC...aka, my "I can't outwrite the Marvel writers, so we're just going to breeze on by..." chapter
> 
> I was planning to upload Chap 20 tonight and then finish off on Christmas but uh, there are twenty-two chapters apparently? (yes, I realize I should know this. Shhh) So, I'm going to update normally on Thurs and Monday and then wrap this up New Year's Eve for an end of 2014 dealio (:
> 
>  
> 
> As always, tons of love and thanks for the support and continued reading of this!


	20. Chapter 20

           It’s two days after the fall of HYDRA that he begins to feel out the full scope of the damage done to the body. He’s been making steady progress north, walking where he can’t slip unnoticed onto a truck or train, but there’s a tight, roiling pain in his stomach that spasms through his abdomen like clawed fingers digging through the flesh. It’s not a fatal reaction, so far as he can tell; there have been no opportunities to ingest poison and it doesn’t feel like a failsafe. He grits his teeth and keeps walking.

           Twenty minutes later, he’s forced to stop, to lean over and retch up his mostly empty stomach. Empty and with a sickly sour taste in his mouth, he forces himself to breathe, to go back over what could cause symptoms like this. Any failsafe of HYDRA’s would be quick, efficient, stop him before he even reached the riverbank. Any poison would have to be in his food, of which he’s only had one bar taken from the safehouse pantry.

           He frowns, lingering over that. He doesn’t know when he last had real food; even his slowly returning memories are little more than a bloody heap with all sharp edges pointing out, and there’s no way to sort through and find any sort of chronology. Every meal he can think of with any sort of clarity is intravenous. Biting down on the inside of his lip, he forces a breath out. _So, no food. We can work with that,_ the voice says. He brushes it away in frustration but straightens up: he may not know how to fix this, but HYDRA will.

           It’s relatively easy to locate a base, one of the few that hasn’t already been infiltrated and dismantled by the suddenly zealous law enforcement agencies in the country. _Like they can cover this up_ , the voice, the one that’s gotten a little more sure and a little more common recently. He ignores it except for a small, internal note of agreement. Inside the base, there are only a few agents, and they’re easily put down - even weak and at loose ends, the Soldier is infinitely more capable than their feeble, human frames. He shoots them and each technician that doesn’t answer his questions satisfactorily. One survives. She taps out the codes to release files from their locked storage and passes them over with terror in her green eyes. Her death is quick.

           Inside, the files are mostly technical details and a few mission reports. He skims past the mission reports and focuses on their medical briefs. Cataloging the nutrients listed in one of the middle reports, he frowns and makes a note to retrieve these from a hospital rather than attempting to gather each individual ingredient on his own. He slides the files into his bag before ducking out the back door and continuing north. He’ll stop somewhere along the way to gather what he needs.

           Two weeks later, he finds himself in New York City, the entire metropolis alive and buzzing with a cacophony of noise that bombards his ears like gnats in summer - insistent and too many for his brain to sort. He ate twenty three hours ago, and the water bottle in the backpack's side pocket is full. He's fine.  

           He reminds himself of this approximately sixteen times a minute.

           It's not that he hasn't been in busy places before because he has...he thinks. He remembers city lights and rumbling cars and the prevalent smog of exhaust fumes. But those memories lack  the tactile understanding of others, of the ones where his hands are wrapped around a gun or knife or throat. It's harder to believe that they're memories rather than fantasies, mere constructions of his addled brain.  

           Still, he pushes forward, makes himself follow the signs and billboards proclaiming "The Greatest Exhibit of the Century - THE HERO COLLECTION" is just this way. It looks ridiculous, if he's honest. Looks like some sort of carnivalesque display of the super-powered team that guards Manhattan. But - but the man's face had been there, stern and imposing, in its gold and blue acrylics. His face, the one imprinted like a firebrand on his retinas. His feet compel him to keep moving.

           There's no small benefit in the event's location being outdoors, in the broad glade of Central Park. There are a few security officers patrolling the area as if they're at a museum, but they're hardly keen-eyed, and there are neither metal detectors nor confining walls. It's all open-air.

           He accepts a brochure from one of the women standing throughout the exhibit, answers her bright beam with a small nod, and immediately flips through the brochure till he recognizes the glorified portrait of the man.

           "Steven Grant Rogers," it reads, clean white splashed over scarlet and navy, "aka Captain America."

           Finding the actual portion of the exhibit devoted to the man is simple, and once there, he finds that most the crowd shifts through on slow, wondering feet. He's never alone before the wall of paintings and information, but he's never crowded or jostled or left with the same person beside him for too long. The wall here, like the page in the brochure, is garbed in Americana raiment of stars and stripes, and the stylized portrait is present in full scale here, a blue suit and banded shield guarding the Captain as he stares out past his audience. There are paragraphs of biography all around it, and while he skims the beginning few paragraphs - he has little interest in the July 4th birthdate or orphaned beginnings - his eyes slow as he nears the section marked "LOST AND FOUND."  

           "Following the destruction of the last known HYDRA base, Captain Rogers was forced to make a crash landing in the Arctic in order to prevent atomic bombs from reaching the United States. Thousands of workers devoted their time and effort to finding him, but it wasn't until 2012 that a fully preserved HYDRA jet was found with Captain Rogers inside. Thanks to the super serum, he survived both the crash and the seven years in the ice to return to the helm of the Avengers."

           Just to the side of that paragraph is one titled "DEEP OPS" with a picture beside it. Like all the other photos in the exhibit, the Captain is in full view in the image. Unlike the others, however, he isn't the focus: instead, the photographer’s eye fell on a shorter, dark-haired man grinning over at the Captain. Although partially blocked by the Captain's turned head and broad shoulders, the face is enough to send a jolt through him.

           The jaw is the same, if cleaner-shaven, the hair the same dark hue but several inches shorter, the bone structure identical - but the expression on it is what leaves him with a sour, acidic taste coating his tongue. The man in the picture is smiling, small and warm with blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He is undeniably happy.

           Swallowing down the thickening layer of bile in his mouth, he turns and bolts. He doesn't brush into too many people or cause any sort of scene, but he leaves as quickly as possible, seeking out the small coffee shop he'd found the day before. It's a dilapidated little hole in the wall that serves perhaps fifty customers in a day, and no one here questions it when he nearly trips over his feet to find a seat in the far back. He doesn't order anything, just sits and stares at his half-clenched fists laying on the table.

           The Captain had called him Bucky on the bridge and again on the helicarrier. WIth certainty, with absolute conviction. He shudders involuntarily, wondering how HYDRA managed to fit him into the Captain's old friend, if his is the voice that screamed out whenever the Soldier shot another unarmed civilian. Now, that voice is notably silent.

           He is not this man. He can't be. He is a weapon, not a human, not a friend. He doesn't smile at others with warmth and painfully clear affection in his eyes. He hardly knows how to accept a cup of water without breaking the offerer's wrist. Forcing himself to breathe out through his lips, he pushes down the panic, reaches out for the cool professionalism of the Soldier. It's still there, still firmly ingrained in his bones and flesh, even if they're stolen.  

           The facts remain, once the Soldier has parsed through them, that he inhabits this body now. Whatever person used to, they no longer exist. They are gone, whether through the wipes, through the Soldier, through the years. Bucky Barnes, best friend and partner to Captain Steve Rogers, is dead. This thought is somehow not as soothing as he expected.

           The Soldier hesitates over it, mind buzzing like the servos in the metal arm when he’s moving into a new position. There is something there that wants it not to be true, even with the facts laid out before him like red on white. It’s not logical, the Soldier chides, but it’s undecided, lacking the conviction of his usual tone.

           This isn’t the Soldier’s ground, he realizes. War, deception, death – but never wants, never identity. The thought is enough to wrap unease around him like a cloak of cactus thorns. While the voices have whispered in his mind their screams and reprimands for as long as he can remember, never has the Soldier knelt to them. Never has he found them on stronger footing than himself.

           Shaking himself out of this unsettled state, he stands and redirects himself. He may not know exactly what his endgoal is, but the mission remains the same, for now: surveillance, reconnaissance. Then, maybe, he’ll know where to aim.

           With this in mind, he finds a library easily enough, manages to get to a computer even with the wary glances the man at the front desk shoots him, as if he is about to detonate a bomb with all these innocent patrons inside. He would laugh, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done just that. Instead, he opens up the browser and spends the rest of the afternoon reading through sheaves of information on both Captain Rogers and Sergeant Bucky Barnes.

           By the time he rises, fifteen minutes till closing, his head is spinning with information. He has too much and still not quite enough; he knows every single sliver of minutia about Barnes’ life and his work with Rogers, and some of it even matches up to the broken shards in his mind. That adds up to little more than a hollow framework, though, a modernist sculpture of fragmented lines and half-filled holes. Leaning against a tree while he waits for a family to leave their second-story apartment, he prods at the pieces, attempting to sift carefully through the shattered heap of memories in order to find just one of the missing pieces.

          _Someone is screaming._

_It’s not the woman he has in his hand: her neck is far too broken to allow any vocalization. He drops her, follows the steady wail to a child caught with her legs under the wreckage. Brown hair spills out from an elastic tie, blue eyes brightened by tears caught in her lashes. He frowns, staring down at her. There was no child in the mission parameters. The woman, yes, and if necessary, the man, but no child was mentioned. He stares down at her as the screaming increases before dwindling into sobs and hiccups._

 Don’t you fucking touch her _, the voice is snarling, hackles raised like a chained wolf._ Don’t you dare hurt her, I swear to fucking god.

_He crouches, scrutinizing the flushed face and small body. Her legs don’t look broken; they didn’t take much of the car’s weight at all. They’re just pinned. It’s easy work to lift the car with the metal arm, shift it so her ankles are freed. She’s stopped sobbing now, just staring wide-eyed at him with silent tears coursing down her cheeks. He waits until she breaks from her stupor enough to scramble to her feet, and then he drops the car back down. She steps back, skinny arms tucked up close to her chest like a poor boxer._

_“Don’t kill me,” she whimpers, begs. “Please don’t kill me.”_

_He clears his throat uncomfortably, trying to sort out speech._ English, _the voice offers helpfully, tone easing towards something like ‘relaxed.’_

_“I’ll take you to your mom,” he suggests._

_It comes out a little strangled, and she gives him a startled, uncertain look before nodding shakily. He gestures for her to turn around, towards the direction in which her mother’s corpse lays, hidden by the car. She has barely complied before there’s a bullet cutting clean through her brain and falling some ways away onto the tarmac. The small body crumples, folds onto the ground, and_ YOU BASTARD! YOU FUCKING BASTARD! _the world goes up in flames._

           He’s shaking, curled in on himself against the tree, and he doesn’t know how much time has passed, but the family is returning, laughing and talking about the movie they just saw, and he missed his chance. He shoves himself roughly to his feet, stumbles away from the building and forces his feet to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS! Here's some good ol' Bucky angst for y'all.
> 
> Thank you all for the support and encouragement! Hope you all have lovely holidays!


	21. Chapter 21

              They come rapidly after that, like that one memory was enough to jostle the others into alignment, and he stays away from the living city, tucking into niches and holes in the dead, empty part instead. There are a few vagrants here, but they keep to themselves in a small, bonfire-centric community and don’t approach him after the first time. He carves out a nest on the top floor of an abandoned building, in one of two fully intact corners and hunkers down in it with each gun cleaned and loaded, each knife readily available. Most nights, he hunkers down with the metal arm laying in his lap, easing some of the weight from his back and neck; it hurts now, and not just in the way it always has sent a constant stream of buzzing noise to his brain even when not in use. It pulls too heavily on weakened muscles, losing no weight as the rest of his body atrophies.

              Every week or so, he emerges to clamber down to the ground floor and strike off for food. He’s run out of the solutions he’d stolen from a hospital in Baltimore and the ones he’d later retrieved from Philadelphia. His body is getting better at keeping the food in, but his options are still limited; anything like the fat sandwiches brought by volunteers to the homeless, and he’ll be curled around an aching, freshly-emptied stomach all night. Generally, he slips into the kitchen of a Thai restaurant a few blocks north and scoops out a few handfuls of rice before anyone can notice him. It’s just enough to suggest the presence of rats if someone should notice but not enough to make anyone guess that there’s a thief.

              It’s during one of these missions that he pauses in front of a display of TVs. They’re all running the same channel, and a brunette newscaster speaks while a stern-faced woman stands beside him.

              “The search continues for the DC shooter, but so far, no leads have been found. Police Chief Madden from the DCPD, what do you have to say about the case?”

              “Given the files that we’ve seen released from SHIELD, we believe that the shooter was likely an associate of HYDRA tasked with taking out former Director Nick Fury of SHIELD,” the woman explains. “However, there have been no records found that match the shooter’s description. We’re still looking, but for all that we can tell, he may as well have been a ghost.”

              The news clip changes, shifts onto one titled CAPTAIN AMERICA: BACK IN BROOKLYN but he doesn’t stay to watch it. He’s known that HYDRA will look for him, known that he wasn’t free just because he dug out the trackers and walked away. But, foolishly, he hadn’t spared a thought for city authorities. They’ve rarely ever been a problem. One glance down at his shrunken frame, though, and he knows that’s no longer the case. Walking the six blocks to and from his pillaging spot is tiring; to fight or outrun fit officers? He’s not sure how it would end.

              It starts snowing as he turns back to the makeshift nest he’s made for himself, soft, downy flakes floating down and settling feather-light on his shoulders and hair. They melt instantly. Still, he tucks into himself, hands pushed deep within his worn jacket’s pockets. There are holes now in the sleek fabric, and the threads in the left-hand pocket catch on the joints of that hand, snagging and tearing worse each time he slides his hand in or out. His boots are worn to nothing, their shot soles flapping helplessly against the cement as he walks.  He could, under normal circumstances, steal either new clothes or the money to buy them, but he doesn’t trust the steadiness of his hands. The right trembles too easily, the left is too heavy to move in any but broad, crude strokes.

              A memory presses forward, one he’s been repeatedly shoving away. It’s not like most the others, the ones that bull forward in fire and pain, but somehow that makes it worse. It presses gently, even though it itself is full of fire and confusion and disaster.

              _“I’m with you till the end of the line.”_

              It’s a promise as surely as any in the world is, but he has balked and shied away from it again and again. The Captain clearly thought he was his old friend, this person that he can’t be. _Stop it_ , a voice snaps, and he’s startled into realizing that it’s not the Soldier, not the man, not the woman – it’s all three of them, a firm blend that echoes strangely like his own. _He knew what he was doing. He still promised._ Then, a little softer, _he meant it._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, the super realistically short semi-restoration of Bucky Barnes. Yeah...I'm sorry. I really wanted to flesh this out more and then I got to this point in the story and was just "fuck it, I'm done." So I will hopefully update this later with a little more depth
> 
> Thank you all for hanging in here! One more chapter to go (:


	22. Chapter 22

           With a plan, finally, comes action. His first stop is another library to look up Captain Roger’s address; startlingly, he’s not unlisted. He returns to his decrepit nest to pack his things into the backpack he’d taken back in the suburbs of DC. Then it’s to a truck stop where he steps into the shower only to bolt out of it, panic catching in his throat at the focused spray. Panting hard, he grits his teeth and glares down into the sink. Rumlow’s hands – the hose – vault – _“Prep him” – nononono I can’t I can’t go back I can’t I ca-_

           “Shut up,” he snarls, hands clenching into the white ceramic.

           It gives way on the left side, crumbling into chalky dust and shards. He just barely keeps himself from slamming that hand into the rest of it and obliterating the sink completely. The shower’s still running, and finally, slowly, he steps into the back of it, only his feet hit by the spray. It still shoots terror and goosebumps up his frame. He waits until he’s gotten used to that before cupping his mismatched hands and reaching forward to catch water in them. It’s slow going, but between a thin washcloth and his hands, he scrubs away the sweat, dried blood, and grime that has accumulated on his body over the past few months.

           He’s shaking when he steps out from the now-cold spray, and he forces himself to breathe, to steady his hands before moves on to hacking off his hair with the ornamental knife. It’s as wickedly sharp as when he first saw it, and it slices through the wet, tangled locks in quick if not neat strokes. His hand stops cutting when it’s the same length it was when he was in DC, despite his plans to cut it as low as in the images he’d seen of Barnes. Frowning into the mirror, he gives up on forcing it shorter and moves onto shaving away the beard that’s thickened over his jaw and cheeks. This happens sometimes, his body doing as it believes it needs to or should do no matter his brain’s protests.

           Once the beard’s gone, he stares for a long while at the foreign reflection staring back at him. His hair, still mostly wet, curls a little where it’s drying and tickles against his bare neck and cheeks.  Shaking himself, he moves to pull on the clothes he’d managed to scavenge from some unsuspecting bachelor’s flat. The pants are snug over his legs, but they cover him and zip easily, slouching a little on his hips like they’re meant for someone with more in the way of hips. The t-shirt catches on his shoulders and then hangs like a flag of surrender, limp and crumpling on the top hem of the pants without brushing a single atrophied muscle. His boots are pulled back on, and he yanks back on the laces of the left only to have the holes rip completely out. It’s simple enough to skip that notch, but the soles are gone at this point, and the laces disintegrating. He hesitates for only a minute before tossing them into the trashcan and hefting his bag over his shoulder; it’s only a few miles to the apartment.

           After that, all there is is the walk. It’s evening, and the crowds around him are wrapped snug in coats and scarves, cheeks pink and bunched up by their grins. Aside from absently noting when his feet lose feeling, he focuses exclusively on the crowd. If he thinks too much, lets his mind slip from its clinical detachment, he will turn back and flee. He can’t afford that anymore.

           So, he keeps walking, noting any groups that look potentially dangerous or any loners whose eyes linger too long on him. Few do; most everyone out here is giddy about upcoming holidays and too preoccupied with themselves and their groups to notice the dark figure trudging barefoot past.

           When he arrives at Rogers’ apartment, the lights are off and the downstairs door locked. After staring in frustration up at the darkened windows, he turns and sits down on the curb to wait. Rogers will leave his apartment at some point, probably in the morning, and it’s not so cold that he’s likely to be harmed too badly from waiting out the night. Satisfied, he tucks his hands into his pockets and leans into his denim-covered thighs to conserve heat. For the first time in a long time, he reaches out gingerly towards the shattered memories.

            _“So you’re a sniper, huh?” she asks, voice disparaging._

_He glances up from his rifle to grant her an unimpressed look before turning back to attaching the scope. She’s in a skintight suit, red hair loose and long. He doesn’t bother asking how the hell that works for a mission; she has a far more impressive resume than him._

_“Just so we’re clear,” she continues, “if you compromise my mission because you’re feeling a little trigger-happy, I will carve out your spleen.”_

_“Uh-huh,” he agrees, standing, “and if I let you get shot?”_

_She scoffs, standing with fluid grace, and pauses to look him up and down appraisingly before sashaying past._

_“Oh, I won’t,” she promises over her shoulder._

_He rolls his eyes, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and follows her out._ Jesus Christ _, he thinks, reaching out for the glass door and –_

           It breaks off abruptly, like a book with its second half ripped out, and he frowns, fighting to pull it back and finish it. Before he can give it more than a preliminary tug, there’s the sound of a motor approaching, and he shifts to watch for the approaching motorcycle. He had considered the possibility of Rogers’ neighbors showing up, of course, but his plan for dealing with them hadn’t even taken root in the planning stage.

           The motorcycle, however, isn’t carrying one of Rogers’ neighbors. It’s carrying him. He stands, hands still shoved into his pockets, backpack strap over his right shoulder, and waits as the motorcycle slows and gently rolls to a stop seven-odd feet from him before a twist of the key shuts it off. In the glow of the streetlamp, he can see Rogers staring at him, face an inscrutable amalgam of emotions. Swallowing hard, he braces himself and opens his mouth to speak.

           “I’m sick of running,” he announces, voice tilted towards a challenge.

           Rogers could easily turn him into the police, he knows, or even whatever’s left of SHIELD. In this state, he could probably take out a few humans, but he’d stand no chance against the super soldier.

           “Okay,” Rogers answers instead, voice hesitant but genuine.

           He freezes, all his plans fighting for realization and getting tangled up amongst each other. Of all the possibilities he’d planned for, he’d never expected that kind of easy acceptance. Finally, he swallows, gaze slipping down.

           “I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits, voice quieter and more unsure than he’s ever heard it.

           He can hear Rogers stand, the jingle as keys go into his pocket, and then there’s warmth radiating into the air around him. When he dares look up, there’s a half-broken smile on Rogers’ lips and a shattered look in his eyes.

           “Right here’s just fine, Buck,” he promises.

           He doesn’t reach to pull him in close or wrap his arms about him, but there’s tautness to the air as if he’s only just restraining himself. Instead, he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, an uncertainty in his expression.

           “Is it okay if I call you Bucky or do you have a name you prefer now?” he asks, and of all the things he expected, it was not this.

           He’s spent little time considering what he’s called, not having had to think about it for what the biographies say is some ten years, but “James” slides off him like water when he considers it, and if “Bucky” doesn’t feel quite right, it doesn’t feel wrong, either.

           “Bucky’s fine,” he answers after a moment.

           Rogers nods and fiddles a moment with the keys in his pocket before he looks up with a small, tentative smile. It’s nearing ten o’clock, and there’s snow soaking into their clothes, but for the first time in a decade, Bucky sees the sun.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, folks. Hope you guys enjoyed the story and thank you so incredibly much for reading this and all the support you've given me. You guys really are phenomenal and I hope your New Year is amazing!

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my NaNoWriMo for this year (with a little headstart 'cause you know I need it). Hopefully that means I'll actually finish it.


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